Page 80 of His to Destroy

I slam his head into the ground so hard the concrete cracks.

He groans, blood oozing from a new gash.

"You piece of shit," I growl, my fists pounding into him, each word punctuated by a blow. "You—don’t—deserve—to—breathe!"

But Stark isn’t finished.

Even broken, he still taunts me.

"If you were half the man I am," he coughs out, "I wouldn't have had to run to another syndicate for help. You would've handled it yourself. Like a real Don would. But oh, you’re still not a Don yet, are you?"

I freeze for half a second.

The old shame, the old doubts—he knows exactly where to aim.

But then I smile.

A cold, savage smile.

"I’m nothing like you," I say, my voice dripping with venom.

And I punch him again.

I don’t stop to breathe this time. I just keep punching.

Until his breathing becomes wet and rattling, until his swollen face is barely recognizable, until his arms lie limp and useless at his sides.

Until he’s nothing but a broken shell of the monster he used to be.

"You broke her," I say, my voice cracking. "You shattered her life. And you tried to pin it on me."

He laughs—a wet, broken sound.

"You were never going to be strong enough to survive in this world," he rasps. "You needed someone to do the dirty work. You should be honored that I was going to do that and give you the credit for it."

I slam my forehead into his nose with a brutal crunch.

Blood gushes, and he collapses onto the ground, groaning.

But I’m still not finished.

Not even close.

I straddle him, pinning him to the filthy asphalt.

And I hit him. Over and over again.

Each punch lands with a dull, sickening thud.

Knuckles meeting bone.

Skin splitting.

Blood spraying.

I sit back finally, breathing hard, my hands slick with blood—his and mine.

Stark groans, barely conscious, a pitiful whimper escaping his mangled lips.

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