Page 22 of Road to Ruin
“Hey, what are you doing? You can’t be serious.”
Tommy blinks up at me much the same way he blinked at his friend. “I know guys like this,” he says. “It takes more than a couple of broken bones to leave a lasting impression. They need a visible reminder.”
“Don’t do it. Not for me. I didn’t ask you to get involved.”
He laughs, a slow, casual smile spreading across his face. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it so I can sleep at night.” His jaw is square and strong, his cheekbones sharp and cruel. It goes without saying that he’s a good-looking guy. More than that; he’s a force of nature, and all of Mother Nature’s creations are masterpieces. When he smiles at me, though, looking up at me like this, splattered with blood, a distant and disturbing look of complete and utter vacancy in his hazel eyes, he’s something else. Raw. Uncontainable. Unknowable. Almost inhuman, like a soulless Greek god, masquerading as a mortal.
“Do not hurt him any further than you already have,” I say. “I came here looking for Junior. Just tell me where he is and we’ll all leave. Together.”
“Junior?” His brows pull together quizzically.
“Junior’s not here,” the guy in the baseball cap says.
If this situation weren’t so fucked up right now, hearing this would normally flood me with relief. As it stands, I just feel numb. All this, and for nothing? Urgh!“Great. Then let’s just go.”
Tommy shakes his head. He looks down at Porky, at his own finger still hooked inside the bastard’s mouth, and he cracks his neck. “I’m not going to stamp on your balls,” he tells the man lying on the ground. “And I’m not going to give you the full treatment. I’m only gonna fuck up one side of your face, and when I’m done you’re gonna get down on your hands and knees and you’re gonna thank this woman for her mercy. Do you understand me, motherfucker?”
“Fuck…you…”
Spit and blood flies everywhere. Tommy cringes, but he doesn’t shy away from his task. My stomach roils as he takes the blade of the knife and he inserts it into Porky’s mouth. He’s not really going to do it, though. He’s not. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be sick enough to—
I cover my mouth with both hands as Tommy swiftly jerks the blade upward, toward himself, cleaving the sharpened steel right through Porky’s cheek. I don’t think Porky believed he was really going to do it, either. For a moment he just lies there, eyes the size of golf balls, a river of blood flowing quickly down his face and over his throat, his mouth opening and closing wildly. His cheek flaps loosely, the three-inch long tear in his skin a neat, straight, bloody and terrible line.
Tommy leans down, so that his face is only a couple of inches away from Porky’s. “I could have made it worse,” he whispers. “I could have sawed at you from the corner of your mouth. I could have done it slowly. Now get on your hands and knees, motherfucker. Get on your hands and knees right now and thank her like I told you to.”
Porky screams. It’s as though the shock of what’s just happened has worn off all of a sudden, and the pain and the horror has hit him all at once. He sucks in a ragged, winded breath and screams again, high and reedy, like a frightened little girl.
Silence falls over the entire fight floor.
Tommy wipes the blade of the knife on Porky’s already blood-stained shirt, and then gets to his feet. “You have three seconds. Three seconds before I finish the job. And I’ll do it properly this time.” His threat is spoken quietly, but Porky must hear him. Slowly, he heaves himself upright and then onto his hands and knees. With painfully slow progress, he crawls his way over to me, until he’s at my feet, and then he clutches and claws at the cuffs of my jeans with bloody, shaking hands.
“Thank….thank you,” he stutters. “Thank you…thank you for…your mercy.”
I back away. My throat feels like it’s swelling shut. “Jesus…”
“Quite the performance,” someone says behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—an automatic response that’s as natural to me as breathing. The name Alexander Bastien will provoke the most dramatic reaction from me. The sound of his voice? That’s enough to send me spiraling into madness, especially if he’s somehow managed to sneak up behind me. I turn around and he’s standing there, no longer in the octagon. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s staring straight at Tommy, and I swear there’s war in his eyes. Tommy’s expression is just as violent. It looks like the two of them are about to kill each other.
“Alex,” Tommy says. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…”
Alex inclines his head, a vicious smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Likewise.” He gives the guy in the ball cap a cursory glance, then follows it up with a curt nod. “Looks like you did well, David. I didn’t think you’d actually be able to get him back here.”
“You kidnapped our sister. Of course he was gonna come back,” the guy, David, spits.
Sister? Oh, God. Does he mean the woman? The woman Alex married is Tommy’s sister? I’d say I was surprised, but honestly there’s nothing a Bastien could ever do to shock or surprise me these days. I learned a long time ago that their family’s level of hatred, spite and vengeance knows no bounds.
It doesn’t look like my ex boyfriend married for love, then. Looks like he did it to get someone’s attention. The woman in question appears from the crowd, her cheeks flushed a lovely, delicate pink color, her raven-black hair tumbling loose from countless shining silver pins.
“Tommy,” she says breathlessly. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”
The two men, her brothers, exchange looks. David clears his throat, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “We didn’t have much choice, Gen. You’re our kid sister. How are we meant to leave you in…this situation?”
“There is no situation,” she says firmly. “There’s just me and Alex. I was taking care of things. Fuck.” She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “You’ve ruined everything.”
Tommy still hasn’t said anything. He’s watching his sister very closely, his fingers twitching every few seconds or so, his body very, very still. Conversely, Alex hasn’t taken his eyes off Tommy. “I already knew you were back,” he tells him. “You were careful, but you’re also notorious. You used to be Havoc. Everyone in this city knows your face. I’ve just been waiting for you to burst into here, guns blazing.”
“No blazing guns here. I just came to collect my sister.”
Alex tuts, wagging his index finger. “She’s not your sister anymore. She’s my wife. She gave herself to me. She’s my property, aren’t you, pet?” He faces Genevieve, stroking a hand over her hair and then down her arm. I can practically see her skin break into goose bumps from here. She nods, her head bobbing just a fraction.
