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“This is all a misunderstanding.” His bullshit words fall on deaf ears. Alton thrashes and I tighten my hold, pressing on his trachea. Enjoy how with each breath his body fights to get free but can’t.
“Be grateful that I’m starting off slow. That retribution will come in steps.” The longer I hold him, the weaker he becomes, and when his knees buckle, I push him back toward Carmelo. “Help him find his footing.”
“Please stop,” Brittany whimpers, face splotchy and nose running. “Can we all just stop and talk about this. I’m sure that—”
“Why?” Marcus cuts her off then, finding his voice, His tone is low, but it carries a hint of rage. His eyes stray toward his son. You can see that he’s full of worry, but the man is smart enough not to move. He doesn’t even try to comfort the fiancée who looks close to passing out.
“Why, he asks?” Looking toward this hall’s entrance, I nod at Javier and not ten seconds pass when the entire place goes pitch black. The woman screams, and a few muted thuds follow.
The sound of bodies hitting the floor.
In my head, I count to sixty and then clap once. The sound is loud, reverberates around the large space and bounces off the metal doors. A click is heard, the kind of noise that comes from the flipping of an electrical breaker, and then section by section comes back on.
A smile crosses my lips at the sight that greets me. Three people are on the floor, kneeling a few feet apart. Two males and one female; each one has a guard.
She’s crying.
Alton is fighting to regain his composure.
Marcus is holding his arm tight to his chest as the wound once again seeps blood. My eyes shift to the guard standing behind him and zero in on the red-stained skin of his thumb. I don’t say anything, but my smirk gives away to my pleasure.
From the corner of my eye, I see Javier hold out five fingers letting me know how much time I have left. Other guests are due to arrive soon, and there are a few things to discuss before then.
The Fosters’ first locker has a chair inside, and I grab it. Place it in front of Alton. “Look at me,” I say, and with the tip of my shoe push his face up. You can see the anger boiling within—feel his hatred of me. “Keep them here and pay very close attention. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a swiftness he isn’t expecting, I pull out my knife from a small holster on my ankle and slide the smooth steel across his cheek. Press just deep enough to leave a superficial wound from his cheekbone to the corner of his bottom lip. Blood seeps to the surface and a few drops glide down his face. “Don’t ever fuck with what’s mine again.”
15
“BUT I HAVEN’T DONE—”
My hand across his cheek, the same one I just cut, silences him. “Speak when spoken to, not before.” Gathering some of the red on his cheek with the tip of the blade, I rub it into his skin, letting the sharp edge scratch at the cut. “We had this same discussion a week ago, and yet here we are. Going over the same bullshit. Wasting my time.”
Javier comes over then to drop a folder with both information and a set of pictures in front of him. Every single one has a date and time stamp on them. They show a blatant disrespect for my personal belongings.
I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Go on. Look at them.”
Alton does as I tell him, picking up the paperwork first with shaky hands. He flips through each page, face pale and head shaking back and forth. “No. No!”
Those papers hold the transcript of a conversation he had three nights ago with a buddy of his and mine. Someone I use from time to time to deliver verbal messages to clients in the business of importing drugs into the US. To Alton’s bad luck, this man owes me a favor after I took care of his mother’s hospital bills, and he recorded their talk.
A call where London’s brother asks him to help him both rob and kill me, the latter by cutting the brake line to one of my vehicles. More than likely, the SUV my driver uses.
“Yes. Now, pick up those pictures.”
“Mr. Asher, you have to believe me. This is all a lie. I don’t understand why I’m being framed or…” His father’s scream of pain cuts him off, and he looks over to see my guy dig two fingers into the wound this time. Marcus is sweating, shaking as the shock of pain ripples through his body.
“Pick up the photos.”
“Please, son,” he begs right before another scream rips from his throat. More blood. More pain. His father’s body trembles as the finger imbedded into his flesh is taken out, and staying on his knees is no longer an option. Marcus falls forward, the cold cement cushioning his fall as he lies in a fetal position.
“Please, Asher. No more.”
“Listen to your father, Alton. Look. At. Them.”
Trembling fingers drop the papers in hand and pick up the photographic proof of his idiocy.
