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“He’s still breathin’.”
I take in the state of Laredo’s busted-up face. My body stiffens as I peer down at his chest, covered in blood. There, carved into his skin, is the name DeSantis—my father’s sick way of sending a message. I’ve seen it many times before. My blood runs cold, and I feel my anger boil over into rage.
“He’s fuckin’ with us.” I seethe.
The worst part is that I’m to blame for my brother’s body being mutilated.
“Get out of your fuckin’ head, brother. We need you here, present and alert.” Salem’s sharp tone jolts me out of my dark thoughts.
“His face is busted up pretty good,” Juneau says as he assesses Laredo’s injuries. “He likely has a few cracked ribs, too.” Juneau looks at Salem, adding, “We need to transport him to the clubhouse. I’ll patch him up there.”
The thunderous roar of a motorcycle slices through the air, instantly capturing our attention. The powerful sound is fleeting, quickly replaced by the imposing figure of Mystic striding through the front door, a weapon gripped tightly in his hand.
Salem’s voice cuts through the tension, laced with urgency and concern. “Did you encounter trouble as well?” he asks, his eyes locked on Mystic.
A mixture of shock and worry flashes across Mystic’s face as he glances at Laredo. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, taking in Laredo’s battered form.
“Where is Baja?” I ask urgently, genuinely concerned about his safety, as Mystic’s gaze remains fixed on Laredo for a moment longer before refocusing on us.
“Currently, Baja is holding a trespasser he caught lurking outside the clubhouse,” he reveals.
“Laredo’s truck is parked out back. Get him loaded up immediately and bring him back to the compound for proper care,” Salem orders. His tone then takes on an even sharper edge as he adds, “Afterwards, we’ll pay a visit to our unwanted visitor.”
The air is heavy as I stand over a man bound to a wooden table in the center of the room. The dim light overhead flickers, casting dancing shadows on the damp stone walls surrounding us. The smell of old earth permeates every square inch, filling my nostrils with a musty scent of decay and death. The cellar had an ominous aura about it. Overhead, cobwebs hang from the ceiling beams.
The silence is broken only by the ragged breaths of our visitor. I reach into my pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes. The flame’s warm glow illuminates my face as I light the cigarette. I take that first drag, inhaling deeply, feeling the smoke fill my lungs as I stare down at the bloodied face of a man who works for my father.
The bastard isn’t talking. I knew he wouldn’t. My father’s men are fiercely loyal. I continue to stare at him. My brothers worked him over good; each taking turns inflicting pain on the son of a bitch before strapping him to the table. Now it’s my turn.
Marco Rossi.I’ve known the man since he became my father’s right hand. He’s the embodiment of darkness in the criminal underworld. Marco thrives on chaos and revels in the suffering of others.
Marco comes to, his eyes locking on mine. “If you were anything like your father, I would be dead already,” Marco mutters.
I take another drag from my cigarette while studying him intently. His eyes dart around nervously, like a trapped animal searching for escape routes. The motherfucker is scared.Good.
I take one final drag as I pry open Marco’s eyelids. Twisted satisfaction courses through me as I raise the smoldering tip toward Marco’s eye socket. The atmosphere thickens as if the walls hold their breath, anticipating what will come.
“Compared to me, my father is a goddamn saint.”
I shove the burning tip of the cigarette into his eye. Marco howls in pain as he thrashes against his restraints.
I pull a hunting knife with a five-inch blade from a sheath on my hip and pop off the plastic buttons of Marco’s black collared shirt one by one, then splay it open, revealing his chest and torso. Inked in his skin is a tattoo I’ve seen many times before,Fear No Man. Marco looks at me with one remaining eye as I drag the blade tip across his chest.
“Fuck you.” He spits at me. “You are no DeSantis.”
“You’re right,” I growl, my voice dripping with venom, and start carving into his flesh, etching out a message to my father, feeding off his torturous wails. I look at him when I’m finished. “Fallen Ravens blood runs through my veins.” I declare. In one swift move, I slit his throat.
I wipe the blood from my blade and slide it back into the sheath as life drains from Marco’s body.
“Send it.”
Baja steps forward, holding the phone we found in Marco’s pocket and takes a picture of the corpse with a clear message of our intent written across the dead man’s chest:Death is coming.
17
SUKIE
Working alongside my mom in the greenhouse is not something I do nearly as much as I’d like, considering most of my time is spent at Belladonna’s. But I do relish the rare occasion I can get my hands dirty. The greenhouse is my mom’s wheelhouse. Whereas the lake is my sanctuary, the greenhouse is hers. That’s because growing plants and herbs was something she grew up doing alongside her mother. It was something special that her mom passed down to her, then she passed it down to me.
