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I snap on him.
In the middle of his stupid rant, I show him just how stupid he is.
My fist pops him in the jaw in a precise hit, then I grip him by the neck and drive him toward the wall. Stars shine in his eyes as he collides with the cement surface and I bang his head several times, leaving streaks of blood.
But I’m not done.
I toss him to the floor and flip out my knife. He crashes down, more dummy than man. Pinning him to the ground, I grab his large, open palm, and saw into his index finger with the blade of my knife.
Screams of torment echo around the room.
He writhes under me, still too dizzied to fight me off. Even if he tried, it’d be so much worse for him. I’d cut his jugular open and scoop up the blood for fun.
“ARGH!” he howls as I sever his finger. “STOP-STOP-STOP! ARGH!”
“What was that?” I taunt. “What was that about being unfazed?”
“PLEASE! OKAY! STOP!”
I double smack him across either cheek with my bloodied hand. His finger hangs halfway off, cut down to the bone, barely hanging on. Another deep saw of my blade and it would’ve come clean off.
“I suggest you shut the fuck up and stop talking shit,” I tell him. I stand up straight and slide my clean hand through my slicked back hair.
My guards in the room remain amused. On the other hand, Ernest appears to be caught between two distinct reactions—nausea at what he just witnessed and a barbaric satisfaction that isn’t common from him.
His almost-black gaze flits from where Clay lays crumpled and bleeding on the ground, then back up to me with his square face tight and full of tension.
It’s enough to pique my interest.
Ernest Adams, the arbiter of law and order, satisfied by a mafia boss damn near brutally slicing off another man’s finger—with much worse soon to come.
Maybe Delphine’s dark side is hereditary after all.
I’d say so after he essentially arranged my assassination.
There will be no happy ending for Ernest Adams tonight. Only retribution for the many schemes he’s pulled. Usually orchestrated from afar, where his hands didn’t have to get dirty at all.
Unluckily for him, I’m going to make him break his own moral code.
“You want to try, DA?” I ask him, flipping around my knife and presenting it to him handle first. “You want a little payback on Killer Clay? You two have sure been kicking the shit out of each other like you do.”
Ernest tears his gaze away from a sobbing Clay for a glare at me. “That would be an obvious no, Mancino. You know it’s a no. You know I don’t murder and maim like you and men like you.”
“That’s funny, because when you attacked Clay at the club, you sure were beating the shit out of him earlier. You didn’t seem like you were about to stop anytime soon.”
His teeth grit and he takes a furious step toward me. “The bastard was about to murder my grandson—of course I’d do anything necessary to make him stop!”
My grin twists onto my face. “Then maybe, DA, you should consider that you and I aren’t so different after all. I’m not holding you and your pal Clay here for shits and giggles. I’m holding you here for one reason and one reason only—you came for my family. Now you’re about to find out what happens when you do.”
In a rare occurrence, Ernest falls silent. He clamps his mouth shut and seems to be stumped on what I’ve said. His thick brows draw close as if in thought.
It’s amusing to see.
His entire perspective and world view has come into question, and he can’t even defend himself. A man as polished and refined as him, a man who built his entire career off words and the sharp manner in which he used them to prosecute criminals, falls speechless.
Because, deep down, he knows I’m right.
“Psycho, she’s here,” Fabio says from behind me. “Should we let her in?”
