AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I'm your fucking brother, Damien!" he yells as fear flashes in his eyes for just a moment. "You're going to let someone dictate how you run your family? Your business?"
A laugh, humorless and sharp, cuts through the tension in the air. "No one is dictating shit," I snarl. "I'm showing everyone that I govern my own. That when they step out of line, there will be consequences. That I'm the one they must deal with. You have no one to blame but yourself for what's about to happen."
"I won't let anyone disrespect me," Jackson snarls. "You wouldn't either, so what's the difference?"
"The difference is," I say, steadying the rage swirling in my chest. "I've earned my place. I make decisions that keep us strong, keep us alive. You? You let your ego and your dick lead you, and that's reckless. The family, our people, they look to me to guide them, to protect them. That's a job I don't take lightly, and I do it with their respect."
Jackson's face hardens with defiance in his eyes. "That's what I'm doing! Getting respect."
I lean in close, making sure my words leave no room for misinterpretation. "You don't get it, do you? You put yourself first. Not the family. That's why you're in this predicament. Not because you're not respected but because you didn't respect the order that keeps us all alive and thriving. The difference between you and me is that I command respect with my mere presence alone. You demand respect by flapping your fucking mouth."
I reach up and unbind Jackson's hands. He lands the short distance to the ground almost gracefully, but he stumbles, displaying a flash of weakness before righting himself. I step back, creating distance as I strip off my suit jacket and carelessly toss it aside. I unbutton the cuffs of my dress shirt methodically before rolling up the sleeves in preparation for what's to come.
"You want respect?" I ask Jackson, my voice a blend of challenge and disdain. "I'll give you a chance to earn a little of it. Right here. Right now. Fight for your respect."
He’s standing now, unsure but defiant. A small, tenacious flame in the eye of a storm. The air between us crackles with the promise of violence. An old and primal ritual of power.
"If you win," I continue, the corners of my mouth hinting at a mocking smile. "Everyone will know you got the best of Damien Blackhart. It will do wonders for your reputation."
I square my shoulders, letting the cold, hard reality of our situation sink in. "Just know, I'll take great joy in kicking your ass while you try." My fists are closed tight and ready. "When I beat you into submission, and I will,” I assert, every word a nail in his coffin. "I'll send proof to the Valdez's to keep them at bay, and you'd better not step a fucking toe out of line again."
Jackson lunges towards me like a wounded animal, desperate and ferocious. I sidestep his first few punches with ease, the memory of a thousand past fights guiding my movements. His heavy breaths are already demonstrating fatigue, but there’s a fire in his eyes that refuses to be extinguished. Cocky, foolish determination. I can’t help but admire it just a little, even in this moment.
I let him land a few jabs, his knuckles connecting with the hard planes of my body with no effect. The dull thuds are almost amusing. I chuckle under my breath, feeling nothing but the rush of adrenaline warming my veins.
Then, with a swift pivot, I'm behind him, watching as he stumbles from his own momentum. He’s been with me long enough to know better, yet here we are. It’s clear Jackson is no match for me. His movements are too predictable and heavy with emotion rather than strategy.
So, I dance around him, a predator playing with his prey, throwing punches, which I pull at the very last moment. It's a show more for the shadows lurking in the corners of the warehouse than for the man spinning in the center of my controlled storm.
“You’ll have to do better than that, little brother,” I taunt, dodging another one of his punches. He growls, frustrated and wild, and I can see it in his eyes, that moment of realization. He’s outclassed, and whether his pride lets him admit it or not, he knows it. Yet, despite it all, he doesn't give up.
That's when I decided enough is enough. Playtime is over. I narrow the distance between us with my fists clenched and ready. I unleash a tight combination, a left and a right, straight into his guard, breaking through with sheer force. Jackson's attempts to counter are clumsy, with desperation making him sloppy, and I exploit every opening.
I hammer another punch that catches him square in the jaw, feeling the shock of the impact jolt up my arm. I'm relentless, a barrage of jabs and hooks that snap his head to the side again and again. He's feeling it now, and each blow I deliver carries a lesson. It's not just about respect. It's about consequences.
With a swift uppercut, I lift him off his feet for a split second. I step back, and watch him struggle to keep on his feet. This is the hierarchy of power. This is how respect is earned and maintained. I deliver another punch, and he falls to the ground.
I look down at Jackson. His face is bloodied and beaten, and the fight is gone from his eyes. He's barely conscious, trying to stay upright in his defeat. I grab him by the front of his torn shirt, yanking him up to level his gaze with mine. My fist connects violently with his face, again and again, each punch a clear message in this brutal conversation. When he begins to mumble incoherently, probably pleading for an end, I finally stop. I release my grip, and he collapses to the ground in a pitiful heap of desperation.
I step away, breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. Jackson's eyes are swollen shut, and with a pitiful act of defiance, he spits out blood onto the dirty warehouse floor before finally falling back, unconscious. I walk over to where I tossed my suit jacket and slide into it, straightening the fabric with a sense of cold satisfaction setting in.
Meanwhile, Victor snaps pictures, capturing Jackson in his debilitated state. These will be the images sent to the Valdez family, a demonstration of the consequences of stepping out of line with me.
"Go home, Vic," I say as the weight of the night hangs heavy on my shoulders.
He nods, packing up his things, and leaves without a word. I take a moment to look over Jackson's limp form. He's a mess, but he's still family. I stoop down, lifting his unconscious body with surprising ease, and make my way out of the warehouse. Fitting him into the front seat of my car, I slam the door and slide behind the wheel. As I start the engine, I glance at his battered face once more. This is the cost of power. Of respect.
The drive to Jackson's house is a quick one, as the streets are almost empty at this hour. Every now and then, Jackson groans, a low sound of pain that escapes his lips despite his unconscious efforts to hold it back. Pulling into the driveway, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring at the house. So normal and peaceful. I get out, open the passenger side door, and carefully hoist Jackson's limp form into my arms. His head lolls around, but I've got him.
Inside the house, the heavy sound of silence greets us. I walk over and lay him down on the couch, not giving a second thought to the blood that might stain the fabric. Suddenly, Mrs. Collins enters the room. Her startled gasp fills the space like a sudden crack of thunder.
"What happened?" she asks, her voice shaky and afraid.
"He'll be okay," I say flatly, cutting off any further questions. "Just get him some painkillers and something to drink."
My voice leaves no room for argument. I'm still the man in charge, even here in this domestic scene that feels worlds away from the warehouse's grim shadows.
Mrs. Collins scurries away, leaving me alone with my thoughts as the heaviness settles in my chest. It's not guilt that creeps at the edges of my mind, nor is it sadness. I didn't want to do this to Jackson, but the harsh truth is that our world doesn't care for what we want. Money and power govern us all. In the circles we run in, in our world, I'm the highest power and authority there is. Jackson's screw-up was a slight against me, as much as it was against the Valdez family.
