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He can have his two years grace.
Because once I’m eighteen all bets are off.
He’s mine.
1
ZEKE
Twenty-six months later
The arsehole swinging from the rafters in the underground bunker shrieks like a banshee as Slash approaches. When the man-bunned bastard I claim as my best friend pushes his blade between the man’s ribs, he falls silent, and his body is racked with the shakes. It’s the kind of precision I’ve come to expect from Slash, yet I still find myself smiling at the shit-eating grin that curls his lips when he turns to look at me.
“Straight between the third and fourth rib,” he crows. I shake my head at the malicious glee in his ice-blue eyes. “Direct liver strike. It’s not fatal. Momentarily shuts down the nervous system, then it just hurts like a bitch.”
“Speaking of bitches.” I direct my remark at the naked prick hanging between us. He blubbers as I circle him, blood-tinged foam running down his chin as he tries to regain control of his body. “We’ve had a year of peace. A year of reduced overdoses by Joe and Jane Public. The cops were happy. The Cerulli’s were happy. The Shamrocks were happy. And then, you sneaky little bitches come along with your Fentanyl-laced product and fuck it all up. Again. So, tell me—” I scoop a handful of rock salt from the tub on the stainless-steel table and rub it over the hundreds of tiny slices Slash made in his back. “—who’s brilliant fuckin’ idea was it to try and smuggle dirty heroin through our ports?”
Our captive screams over the end of my question. The chains attaching him to the roof clang as he jerks back and forth. He rides out the stinging in his wounds in semi-silence. Snot bubbles out of his nose. He breathes hard, groaning every now and then.
When he doesn’t offer any information, I rub another handful into his cuts,
The high-pitched keening sound he makes telegraphs that he’s closing in on surrender.
Which is good because I’ve got somewhere else to be tonight.
I plan on stealing a New Year’s kiss from the girl of my dreams.
“Hmmm,” Slash muses when the man falls silent. “Does it look like Rudy here is takin’ us seriously to you?”
Clearing my throat, I move into Rudy’s range of vision. I tip my head to the side, pursing my lips as I pretend to ponder Slash’s question. “You know what, I think he finds this situation beneath him. ’Cause he’s not talkin’… and that’s just rude.” After a quick glance at the clock on the wall, I add, “It’s been four hours, but he hasn’t answered a single question we’ve posed. Hasn’t said a word about the Maddison’s leavin’ him without protection.” At my mention of the Irish mob that he’s trying to join, Rudy closes his eyes. I watch while he weighs up the consequences of selling out the Maddison clan. As soon as I see him reject the idea, I ramp up my rhetoric. “Seems he’s takin’ our hospitality for granted. Maybe we needa grab that cute brunette he lives with? Show her a good, old-fashioned Shamrocks welcome—see if her presence lubes up his vocal cords a bit?”
My reference to his live-in girlfriend shatters his resolve. Rudy drags in a heaving breath, the knife Slash left in his torso bobbing up and down from the movement. Then he sighs. It’s a heavy sound, filled with unvoiced regret and a prayer for a quick death.
It’s a mercy we’re unlikely to grant.
That’s not the Black Shamrocks MC way.
Although I know what’s coming next, I’m still disappointed when he blurts out a stuttering confession. “Jameson set me up with the p-product and the p-plan. He wanted me to see how m-many p-packages we could get through by sacrificing s-some of the lower grade heroin… b-but—but I couldn’t get anything past your s-security.”
“See.” Slash pats Rudy’s cheek when he stops talking. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The question is obviously rhetorical, so I don’t wait for Rudy’s answer before I push my blade between his lips and drag it from left to right and back again. With his face sliced into a traditional Glasgow grin, blood running down his chin, too many puncture wounds to count decorating his body, and a knife stuck in his chest, Rudy isn’t long for this world. Still, I refuse to let nature take its course when I can offer a helping hand.
I’m considerate like that.
“It’s always good ta die with a grin on ya face. It’ll make the poor fuckers who discover ya corpse think you had a life well-lived.” Grasping Rudy’s throat, I hold him in place as I plunge my knife into the back of his neck. Satisfied the single strike has done the job, I turn to Slash, shrugging as I quip, “I’ll see your liver wound and raise ya a severed spinal cord.”
As Rudy slumps forward, his death virtually instant, Slash grumbles, “No one likes a show off, Venom.”
“You’d know, I guess, considerin’ you’ve never been mistaken for one.”
He mutters something under his breath as he begins wiping down his torture kit. I grab my phone and text for a more professional clean-up—one that comes with a burial since I was only fucking with Rudy when I told him someone will find his body. Once Toker has confirmed that he’ll handle the mess we’ve left, I check my missed calls.
“Well, well, well, looks like someone’s keen to see me.”
“Cherub?” Slash asks. He doesn’t look my way when he speaks, but I can sense the tension growing within him as he adds. “Shouldn’t you be keepin’ ya distance? She’s still only seventeen.”
The guilt that always surges in me whenever someone points out her age slinks into my stomach like an oil slick. I feel slightly nauseous, not because I plan on doing anything wrong, because I’ve spent the past two years on pins and needles as I wait for her to see how much better she can do than me.
