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"Done," I whispered, a tremor in my voice. The deed was irrevocable, the path chosen. Whether salvation or damnation awaited, only time would tell.
And with that, I closed my laptop, the screen snapping shut like the cover of a book whose next chapter was yet to be written. I was alone again in the quiet of my apartment, the Chicago night humming softly beyond the walls that couldn’t contain my restless spirit.
Somewhere out there, he was waiting, watching. And I could hardly wait to see how our twisted tale would unfold.
Chapter 2
Nash
The city's pulse throbbed beneath my feet, a steady rhythm of shadows and streetlights, as I trailed Richard Thompson through the twilight haze of Chicago. Every night for a week I'd watched this bastard, memorizing his routine like it was gospel. He was meticulous, predictable—a creature of habit. A goddamn gift for someone like me.
I knew his haunts, his dirty little secrets, the precise moment he'd take that last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the gutter. Yeah, that's right, Dick—smoke up. It might just be your last.
Tonight, though, the script changed. His steps faltered, veering off the well-trod path of his nightly pilgrimage to some piss-stained dive bar. Instead, he turned down an alleyway as desolate as the look in his eyes when they'd shown him his son's picture on the news. The son he'd disowned, the son he'd let die, all because he couldn't handle the kid had more balls than him—figuratively and literally.
"Hey, Thompson," I called out, my voice low and even, a snake's hiss in the dark. I wanted to startle him, see that flinch, that flash of fear. "You got a minute?"
He spun around, his face slack with surprise, a deer caught in headlights if I ever saw one. Good.
"Who the hell are you?" he spat, trying to puff himself up, the scent of guilt seeping from his pores.
"Your worst fucking nightmare," I replied, stepping closer. My shadow engulfed him, and I relished the small shiver that ran through his spine. "Let's chat about your son, shall we? About how you're walking free while he's six feet under because you couldn't deal with who he really was."
Richard's eyes narrowed, lips curling into a sneer. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied through his teeth, defiance etched into every word.
"Cut the crap, Thompson. You and I both know you're full of shit." My hands clenched at my sides, itching for the feel of his throat between them. But no, not yet. This was about justice, not satisfaction.
"Look, I've been cleared by the cops. I didn't have anything to do with—" His excuse was cut short as I stepped forward, my face inches from his.
"Fuck the cops," I snarled, my voice a serrated blade. "This isn't about them. This is about you, me, and the truth. And believe me, I will get it out of you, one way or another."
Fear flashed across his features then, stark and unguarded. Good, let him stew in it, let him taste the bitter tang of dread. Maybe it was a hint of what his son had felt in those final moments.
"Go to hell," he hissed, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
"Been there, done that," I shot back with a humorless chuckle. "Now it's your turn."
I lunged, my body a weapon honed by centuries of existence. Richard's shock was palpable as I collided with him, the force of my vampire strength slamming him against the rough brick wall. His breath whooshed out in a pained grunt, and for a moment, I savored the fear etching deep grooves into his face.
"Wha—What the hell are you?" he gasped, scrambling feebly against my iron grip.
"I don’t like to repeat myself. I already told you I’m your worst fucking nightmare," I growled, baring my fangs inches from his carotid artery, the pulse there beating a frantic rhythm that called to the predator within me.
"Please," he begged, his eyes wide and pleading. But it was too late for prayers. His time had come. My brother's face flashed before my eyes, a silent accusation from beyond the grave. He was once just like this man’s son. The same son this bastard had taken everything from—his life, his dignity, his truth.
"Sorry, Dick. Time to pay up." And with that, I sank my teeth into the soft flesh of his neck, tearing through skin and sinew with an ease that echoed the fury raging through my veins. Richard's blood filled my mouth, hot and coppery, and I drank deeply, every gulp a debt for a life unjustly ended.
The struggle was brief; his body went limp in my arms, a rag doll drained of its stuffing. As the last drop of life ebbed from him, satisfaction warred with guilt inside me. Justice or vengeance? Fuck, I couldn't tell anymore. All I knew was the world was a better place without Richard Thompson in it.
Dumping his lifeless husk onto the cold ground, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling the weight of what I'd done settle over me. But no time for regret. There were loose ends to tie up.
With practiced ease, I hacked into Richard's bank account, the digital numbers on my phone screen mere pawns in my quest for retribution. Every cent he owned, now tainted with the blood of his own kin, siphoned off in seconds. I redirected the funds to an account belonging to the one person who deserved it—the partner of the son he had so callously betrayed.
I imagined the surprise on their face when they saw the balance. A small gesture, but it was all I could offer—a bandage over a gaping wound.
And as the city's pulse beat on around me, I vanished into the shadows of Chicago's underbelly, the taste of Richard's blood still lingering on my tongue. Another name crossed off my list, another step towards... what? Redemption? Retribution? Hell if I knew.
But one thing was for sure: justice, in its darkest form, had been served.
