Page 93 of Devil's Iris
Adam
I found him. Your medication thief. Taking him to the bunk now.
“Adam found the thief. He’s taking him to the bunk.” I’m on my feet before I finish speaking, and Sandro matches my movement instantly. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
The ‘bunk’ isn’t really a bunk at all.
It’s an abandoned inn I discovered years ago and bought—out on the edge of Brooklyn, near the Hole, far enough to stay off the radar of law enforcement. I use it when I have vermin I need to take care of.
Vermin very much like the piece of shit zip-tied to the metal chair in front of me right now.
His hands are secured behind his back, his face already decorated with fresh bruises courtesy of Adam’s welcoming committee—guess he didn’t appreciate how slippery this bastard turned out to be.
Jake—that’s his name—keeps eye contact with me, but the tremor in his legs gives away just how terrified he really is. That and the sweat pouring down his face like he knows what’s coming next.
He should. That’s why he ran away.
He stole from me. Worse—he stole fromher.My mother. Because I supply those medications for her, because of her.
I crouch in front of him, resting my forearms on my knees like I’m about to have a calm chat over coffee. “You know who I am?” I ask casually. Of course he does.
Jake nods frantically, his lips shaking as he stammers out, “Ro–Romero. Yeah. I—I didn’t know the meds were yours.I swear.”
“You didn’t know,” I repeat flatly. “You didn’t know you were stealing insulin meant for orphaned kids who’ll go into diabetic shock without it? The Ozempic that most women wait three months to get their hands on? The chemo drugs that mean the difference between six months and six years for cancer patients?”
He shakes his head violently, blubbering and sobbing. “I didn’t know. I swear. Ididn’tknow.”
Lying piece of shit.
“You know what I hate more than thieving vermin likeyou?” I ask, my tone still conversational. “Thieving vermin who resort to lying after they’re caught. There’s honor in owning up to your actions, you know?”
A pathetic whimper bubbles from his throat. “I’m so sorry. I just needed the cash, man.” He swallows hard. “It was just a couple boxes. I didn’t know people were getting hurt. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”
“I noticeeverything.” I stand up slowly, beginning a lazy circle around his chair, building his fear as my boots crunch on the hardwood floor. “For example, I noticed exactly what you did with some of the medications you stole. You crushed the painkillers. Mixed them. Sold them to junkies on the street.”
He has the sense to keep his mouth shut now.
“You flooded a shelter in Hunts Point with fentanyl-laced garbage that was meant for hospice patients,” I continue, reaching for the small metal tray on the table next to him. My tools are laid out neatly: pliers, a blowtorch, a surgical scalpel, and a hammer. Equipment I rarely use personally anymore—I never had a stomach for torture the way my brothers do, but I know how to get results when necessary.
“Remember the warehouse you worked at? The one you stole from?” I ask as I step behind him, yanking the zip tie around his wrists tighter until he winces. “My men risk prison bringing these drugs in. Not coke. Not meth.Medicine. Life-saving medicine. We move what this country’s broken healthcare system makes impossible to afford because someone has to do it.”
I circle back to face him, meeting his terrified gaze head-on. “My mother died when I was sixteen.” My voice drops to something dangerously quiet. “Her blood sugar spiked and we couldn’t get the insulin she needed in time. If we’d had just one injection of what you sold for a quick buck… she might still be here.”
His eyes bulge wide, and his chest starts heaving as hisbreathing becomes rapid and shallow. The full weight of how catastrophically he’s fucked up finally sinking in. “Please?—”
“If you needed to steal medications for profit, you should’ve done it anywhere but my territory, Jake. None of my brothers would’ve taken your theft quite so personally.”
Before he can form another pathetic plea, I drive my fist into his ribs. Once. Twice. Pain blooms across my knuckles, but I don’t stop until I hear that satisfying crack of bone giving way.
His head snaps back as he screams an apology to the ceiling, his voice fracturing with the effort.
“I don’t need your apology,” I tell him matter-of-factly, flexing my fingers to work out the ache. “You’re only sorry you got caught, not for what you did. Not yet. But I willmakeyou sorry.”
The medication supply isn’t just business for me. It’s how I honor my mother’s memory. My last homage to the woman who deserved better than this world gave her. And this piece of shit disrespected that.
I pick up the pliers.
One by one, I crush the fingers he used to break into the lockboxes where the medications are stashed during transport. Each finger produces a wet, grinding sound as bone and cartilage give way under the metal teeth. His screams climb higher and higher until his voice breaks, leaving him making inhuman croaking sounds.
