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“You don’t have to do—”
The man in my hands gurgles, choking on his own blood as I slice the blade through his jugular and windpipe in one move, letting him fall to my feet like a gutted fish.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?”
Aaron stares at me in horror. The other guy looks like he’s going to throw up as he holds his smashed nose.
I feel less than nothing about the man drowning in his own blood at my feet. For one, because, well, I’m me.
But I also feel less than nothing about this particular sack of shit because the world will not miss one George T. Guitanno, of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. A man who mostly seemed to get his pleasure in life from drinking, being a collector for some two-bit no-name Italian gang, and beating the living shit out of his wife and kids.
I might be a monster. But I’m a specificsortof monster. And there areothersorts I have no tolerance for.
Plus, I mean…a man’s got to havesomestandards.
“Mr. Kildare…” Aaron bleats, looking like he’s just seen the grim reaper himself walk through his front door.
If he doesn’t play his cards right in the next two minutes, that’s exactly what I’ll be to him.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the little gold-handled knife—the former occupant of my ribs. I hold it high, letting the overhead lights of the garage glint off it.
“I’d like to know who you sold this to.”
Aaron swallows, his eyes darting side to side.
Please.
Please be fucking stupid.
Please lie to my fucking face so that I can feed the blood lust inside of me.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life!”
I smile widely.
Thank you, Aaron.
In a second, I’m storming over to his buddy and grabbing him by the wrist. The man squeals and writhes, kicking and screaming as he tries to get free of me.
Yeah, no. That’s not going to work.
I drag him across the chop shop to one of the giant metal table drills. He screams as I slam his hand down across the drill hole with the giant bit, an inch in diameter, poised above it. He hollers and pulls and twists.
But my grip is strong.
He’s not going anywhere.
“I won’t ask again, Aaron.”
“Mr. Kildare,please. That’s my cousin!”
I kick on the machine. A horrendously loud metallic whirring sound fills the garage as the menacing drill spins to a blur above Dear Cousin’s hand.
“I swear! I’ve never—”
Thank you again, Aaron.
I grab the drill handle with my free hand and yank it down.
