Page 55 of Ruins
Memories hit me as I step out. Scythe and Sin. Me and my brother, carving our way through the lessons our father drilled into us. Rebellion. Violence. Blood.
Nico’s already waiting on the front steps as I screech to a stop. I kill the engine, shrug off my suit jacket, and slam the door shut.
I stride toward him, unbuttoning my cuffs, rolling up my sleeves.
Time to get to work.
“Everything’s set. Angelo’s made a bloody mess,” Nico mutters.
We step inside, the old floorboards groaning under our weight as we head toward the basement.
Since the day we avenged our mother, Angelo and I have been known as Scythe and Sinner. Torturers. Judges. Executioners.
We don’t show mercy. Not for men like this.
The second we descend the stairs, the stench of burning flesh hits me like a punch to the gut. My body reacts before my mind does—Santo disappears, andScythetakes over.
Down in the basement, Sin is already in his element.
Shirtless. Covered in sweat. His pupils blown wide, his grin sharp and wild as he works. A butane torch in his grip, flame roaring to life as he presses it to the bastard’s stomach.
The man screams, a raw, agonized sound that echoes off the walls.
Angelo just laughs.
The man is strapped to the metal table, his head encased in a steel box with nothing but a narrow slit for air and speech. His wrists and ankles are cuffed, but Sin went the extra mile—barbed wire coils around each limb, slicing into raw flesh, ensuring that even the slightest movement shreds him further.
Nico was right. It’s a fucking mess.
Blood drips off the table in thick rivulets, pooling on the cement floor before trailing toward the nearest drain.
I step forward, placing a steady hand on Sin’s shoulder.
He stills. A deep inhale. Then, slowly, he turns to face me, a manic, sweat-slick grin splitting his face. His pupils shrink slightly, focus sharpening as consciousness returns to his eyes.
“Welcome back, brother,” I murmur, my own grin mirroring his.
Sin chuckles, wiping a smear of blood from his chest. With a grand gesture, he extends his arm toward his work of art—the burned, mangled, twitching mess sprawled out before us.
“My masterpiece,” he announces, pride lacing his voice as he finally sets the torch down.
I take in the sight, admiring the meticulous destruction. Brutal.Effective.
I knock twice on the metal box covering the man’s head.Clang. Clang.
He whimpers, body jerking. The barbed wire bites deeper. More blood spills.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Your best work yet.”
The man cries out, gasping through the slit in the steel.
“Tell me,” I say, voice calm, collected—deadly. “Who sent you to take Elena Amato?”
A choked sob. “Just kill me.”
His body shifts, fresh blood gushing from his torn limbs.
I tilt my head, watching. “If you tell me who sent you, I’ll make it quick. A bullet between the eyes.”
