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“Only if these trips also include overtime.”
“Permanently… Forever.” Her raspy voice threatens to ruin me.
“Forever,” I agree.
“You start tonight. I expect you to begin immediately,” Quinn says without hesitation.
“What are you waiting for? I can begin immediately, little bijou.”
“Then begin by taking me home, Christian.”
The End
Epilogue
Le Manchot-
ChristianandQuinnwonthis round, which makes us tied. Rest assured once I’ve healed from the loss of my hand, repaired the burnt skin, and I’ve had time to rebuild my numbers. I will return to finish what I’ve started. The Arkham Mafia thinks I’ve met my match, but the truth is, things are just beginning. I am not the only one who wants Arkham to fall. There are others out there, lurking in the shadows of their own cities, waiting for a chance at revenge. I’m going to make it my business to help the others settle the unfinished business they have with Christian, Quinn, The Don, and all the others who think the Arkham Mafia is untouchable. They think this is the end, but it’s very much only the beginning. I’ll be back to exact my revenge when they least expect it. I will let them bury me alive, so that later they will never see me coming.
Ha Ha Ha
Chapter 16
His Retribution
Retribution is the price you pay for failure. It’s the penance you sow for coming home empty handed, and the devastating disappointment of defeat. Retribution is my destiny. I will spend the next year in repentance, proving myself worthy of the gifts that have been bestowed upon me by the Arkham Mafia. This is my retribution, my task. The city will fall to me and all those who stand in opposition will perish .
“Doyouknowwhyyou’re here, Christian?” His menacing voice paralyzing.
Fear wraps its tendrils around my still heart. My fingertips grasp the rim of of my glass firmly as I slowly bring it to my lips, then toss it back. I return the empty glass to the table smoothly, delaying my response.
“Forgive me Don Father, I fucked up,” I say, emotionless, without fear the way he taught me to speak to a man of higher rank within the organization.
There’s a heavy silence between us for several minutes. An intimidation tactic, a test to measure how in control of the situation I am.
“Tell me, Christian, what exactly did you do? Confess your sins, my son, and seek out your redemption.” His face is devoid of any sort of emotion.
I fight the urge to swallow hard and prevent my hand from twitching. I want to unclip the top button of my collar, but that would be a breach of proper etiquette. My mouth has suddenly gone dry. The only appropriate move is to motion for another. I lift my finger, playing this game of chess cautiously. Within moments, the dark honey colored liquid sloshes into my glass. I allow it to settle for a moment, then once again bring it to my lips and toss it back. This is part of my atonement. Forcing me to say it out loud makes the betrayal real.
“I broke my oath to you. I allowed Quinn to get involved by failing to prevent it from happening. I put her life in danger by neglecting to tie up a loose end. Most recently, I used military grade weapons, which resulted in our inability to confirm Le Manchot’s death.” I recite perfectly.
“Does that feel better?”
“No,” I reply.
The Don slips, allowing a small smile to slide across his lips. “Good.” He snarls. “Do you accept your retribution?”
“I do.”
“Rise and remove your shirt,” he instructs.
I do as he says, standing, unbuttoning my shirt with calm hands, removing it, and tossing it over the leather chair where I was sitting.
The Don snaps his fingers. Another man in a suit appears carrying a tray. A second man appears with a black wooden chair. “Sit,” the Don commands.
I do as I am told, assuming the position, straddling the chair, and awaiting the marks of punishment. Behind me, I hear the snap of the latex gloves as they are pulled on. A tool shelf is rolled over next to me. As I wait, I imagine all the things the man is doing to prepare my shameful punishment. He catches me off guard as he cleans the skin between my shoulder blades right below the base of my neck. The cold cleanser dares me to react to make a sound, bringing further shame upon myself. The man presses the stencil into place and allows it to dry. I can hear the thud of my own beating heart, thumping away in anticipation of the familiar buzz from the tattoo gun and the initial stroke of ink. It’s not unbearable at first. The strokes are hard, unforgiving, but the pain feels good. I sit for over an hour as he carves the outline into my flesh. He rubs some ointment from shoulder to shoulder. “Smoke break,” he declares, stripping off his gloves and walking out the back door to the alley. I raise my finger. The drink arrives instantly. I toss it back and motion for another. By the time the man returns, I’m on my third drink. He snaps a fresh pair of gloves into place.
“Ready?” He asks.
