Page 32 of Savage Enemy

“Keep talking, Aris,” Marco said over his shoulder, “and I’ll take out your tongue.”

Aris sat back and folded his arms.

“I’m not the one who got him shot.”

But he didn’t say anything else after that.

He and Marco fought a lot when we were young—and Aris always got his ass kicked. Clearly, nothing had changed beyond the surprising fact that Aris backed off a little faster now.

Santo scoffed and narrowed his eyes at me.

“I don’t fucking buy it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“You abandoned our family and left us with a massive fucking debt to the Russians, and now suddenly, you wanna fucking help? No way.”

“I don’t have anything better to do right now,” I snapped.

With a shrug, I forced myself to put on a brave face.

Did Santo really think I’d meant to abandon him?

He’d been so young at the time.

Maybe I should’ve fought harder to take him with me. I had planned to, but the risk became too great.

“Hold this.” Marco nodded at the bullet while pulling it out from Santo’s wound.

I opened my hand, and the bloody, lead cylinder dropped onto my palm. Its warmth turned my stomach.

“Douse it with the hydrogen peroxide, then chuck it out the window,” Marco ordered.

The peroxide would destroy the remaining DNA evidence in case someone found the slug on the street and decided to test it. Unlikely scenario, yes, but I understood exactly what my brother was instructing me to do. And why.

After finding the dark plastic bottle, I poured the liquid into my cupped hand and watched it fizz and foam around the bloody bullet. Then I tossed the mess out the window and returned to Marco’s side, wiping my hand on my jeans.

Marco stitched up Santo’s side with surgical sutures—his movements precise and certain like he’d had a lot of practice.

So much of Santo’s skin was covered with colorful tattoos, but up close, I saw that the tattoos masked scars—puckered reminders of bullets or blades. Other scars were only skin deep.

Tears burned my eyelids as I wondered what had happened to him over the years. Some of the scars looked older, so probably from soon after I left.

Back when he was still a child.

An image of Aris and Saul ‘teaching Santo a lesson’ instantly came to mind. Were these scars the remnants of my baby brother’s punishments? His innocence sacrificed, so the little angel could become a monster?

Or had this happened because I hadn’t been there to take Aris’s abuse? Had Aris turned on the only other person in the family weaker than him?

That sounded far more likely.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head. All I could do now was help Marco with the newest wound, the bullet hole that hit the center of a large, inked clock.

Santo’s tattoo appeared red and raw. He hadn’t been kidding about the ink being fresh. Pile on the gunshot wound, and the pain must have been intense.

He hadn’t winced at all.

“Santo, are you okay?” I asked.

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