Page 2 of Deceptive Desires
The first snap of my fist meets his stomach, and I hear a rib crack. The sound is music to my ears.Beautiful.
“Tell me what you know,” I demand.
No response.
Another hit to the same spot. The pained howl he lets out soothes me.
Tonight’s going to be fun.
I don’t go to the table full of equipment to my right, instead choosing my fists. I love to get my hands dirty. There’s something about not having a barrier between me and the pain I inflict that fills me with satisfaction. It’s pure, unadulterated me. And I crave it.
“Really? That’s how we’re going to play this?” I chuckle. Maybe he needs more encouragement.
I approach the table and select my pure gold brass knuckles. Maybe this’ll loosen his tongue.
When he sees me approaching, he blanches further.
I go for his sternum this time, and the crunch is exhilarating. It calms the pounding in my head. The hum that’s never quiet enough.
“Fuck! Fine! I was trying to get men to come to our clubs,” he wheezes out.
“Why?”
“Business is down. Not as many people are coming to us. They’re choosing your places more and more.”
I smirk. That’s what I like to hear. Our nightlife has been pumping.
“Is that all?”
I can always tell when someone’s lying. I can pick up their tells within seconds of meeting. Reading body language is my whole career.
This man isn’t lying. His story also matches the other men I’ve interrogated.
“That’s all. We just want more business.”
I believe him. Well, I believe that’s what he knows. But I know there’s more. They’re just keeping it quiet.
“Thank you for your time.”
“So, I’m free to go?” There’s hope in his voice.
And as much as I want to squash it, I know Dom doesn’t want more Bratva death on his hands.
“Yes. But first, you need to be reminded of the consequences of encroaching on our territory. The mafia never has these issues, but you dumb fuck Russians can’t seem to learn.”
I grab a small knife from the table, the one I finish every interrogation with. This knife has seen plenty of bloodshed but has never ended a life; that’s not its purpose.
I see it in his eyes. He knows what’s coming next. The reminder to not fuck with the Syndicate or you’re leaving with my mark.
I use the knife to cut open a lemon and inhale the refreshing scent. I drag the knife through the acidic juices and return to his side. Lemon in one hand, knife in the other.
I find a space free of tattoos on his side on top of the ribs I just broke.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn him, glee dripping into my voice.
To give him credit, he just nods and hangs his head. Smart man. He knows if he fights this, I might change my mind about letting him live.
I start to carve into him. One line down, then a curve, and a diagonal. Three straight lines. Then four more.
