Page 6 of Revenge At Raleigh High
He doesn’t say anything now. The smile slips slowly from his face.
“Probably best if we don’t talk about my father and we concentrate on the matter at hand, huh, Pete?”
The ice in my tone must chill him. He swallows thickly, adjusting his weight. “There’s always bad blood between a father and his son. There’s always a reason why one hates the other. Jack didn’t abandon you, though, Moretti. He ran because Monty—”
I’ve officially had enough of this bullshit. I won’t listen to another word that comes out of his mouth. I’m done. I’m used up and spent by men like Peter Westbrook—men who renege on deals, who waltz around in their thousand-dollar suits, driving their Mercs through the gates of private, guarded communities, where they’re safe and protected from the outside world. Westbrook’s the worst kind of stuck up asshole. A bigot, through and through. He wasn’t born into a life of comfort and luxury. He was born in the gutter, just like me. He’s raised himself pretty damn high over the course of his lifetime, and I respect that, but fuck me if I’m going to let the motherfucker think he’s better than me because of it.
I discard the gun; the metal clunks heavily as I set the weapon aside on Westbrook’s desk. The flick knife I pull from my pocket doesn’t fill me with the same discomfort as the gun. I actually feel a little relieved as I turn the handles over, flipping the blade open, pivoting the knife so that the spine of the metal is pressing against the edge of my hand.
Held like this, it would be so fucking easy to slit his throat. To open up his carotid and have him bleed out. All it would take is a casual, effortless swipe of the hand.
My shoes, wet from the rain and caked with mud, leave dirty prints on the cream carpet as I slowly walk around the prone man in front of me. I come to a stop in front of him, a sick, tight feeling in my stomach when he looks up at me and I see the first flickerings of real fear in his eyes. It was easy to mock me when I was standing behind him. It was easy to forget what he was dealing with, no doubt. His mind presented him with the bare facts: I am nothing more than a seventeen-year-old high school student, employed to do Montgomery Cohen’s grunt work.
Towering over him now, though, Peter sees me for what I truly am: a man, broad, strong, and unrelenting, made hard by the violence I have already borne witness to in this life. I’m no wilting boy-child, quaking in my boots, unsure of how to proceed. Peter knows this the moment I stoop down a foot in front of him, giving him the chance to take a good, long look intomyeyes.
I raise my hand, flicking the knife open and closed.
Peter flinches.
“I—I told you,” he stammers. “Monty placed the order. I gave him the order. This black bag bullshit is…it’s fuckingbullshit!The bag has nothing to do with him!” He’s going red in the face now, a vein pulsing in his left temple. I doubt anyone’s ever burst into his office and threatened him before. He’s sure as shit never had to answer to the likes of me. “Don’t you understand?” Westbrook spits, straining at the cuffs that are restraining his hands behind his back. “He’s getting fucking greedy. He’s fuckingmanipulatingyou!”
I tilt my head to one side, pouting. “So, he’s telling tales, sending me out in the middle of the night to steal random bags from you. That it?”
“Yes!”
“And he’d do that because…?”
Westbrook growls, frustrated, rolling his eyes. “Come on, smartass. This is Bad Guy one-oh-one. Power means respect, and respect means fear. Fear means obedience. Obedience means more fucking power. It’s an endless cycle, and Monty wants more. That bag…it means power. Whoever owns that bag becomes a very powerful man overnight. He’s sent you here, knowing I’ll never hand it over. He knows I’ll kill you before I give it up. What’s that tell you, huh? He doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re disposable. A means to an end. Nothing more than an amusing toy he’ll get bored of, the same way he gets bored of all his other toys. You think you’re the only project kid Monty’s taken under his wing? I hate to break this to you, Princess, but you’re not that fucking special. There were plenty before you, and there’ll be plenty after you, too. You’re gonna end up dead or in prison. Either way, you’re fucking insane if you think Monty will give a shit. About any of it.”
Time to go,Passarotto. You have to leave. Don’t be foolish,miamore.
When she was alive, my mother was never all there. Not really. Her thoughts were so scattered, her mind drifting from one idea to the next so rapidly that it was impossible to keep up with her sometimes. Now, when she comes to me, softly whispering her words of advice and her warnings into my ear, she’s much clearer, her mind free of the fog that always clouded it over. I knowIdid this, thatIgave this to her this clarity in death. She didn’t live long enough to help me through the difficult transition from boy to man. She wasn’t there to tell me what the fuck I should have done when I first met Silver. Over the years, whenever I provoked Gary into beating the living shit out of me with his belt, or before that even, when one of the other cold, bitter fuckers who ‘took me in’ decided to tan my hide, she wasn’t there to protect me. Sometimes, she shows up like this, though, whispering quietly over my shoulder, gently nudging me toward safety.
It's my own sense of self-preservation doing the whispering. It’s not really her. She was buried eleven years ago, for Christ’s sake, the worms finished up their work with her a long time ago, but I choose to believe her influence over me is far from dead and gone.
I set my jaw, quickly lifting the blade of the knife up to Westbrook’s throat. The edge of the steel is so sharp, I barely even show it to his skin before a thin, crimson line forms below his Adam’s apple and the shining surface of the blade is stained with blood. “I don’t care what his motives are. I don’t care if he’s lying. Monty sent me here with a purpose, and I have nothing better to do tonight than fulfill it. You know your options. I’m done fucking talking to you. If I have to stand here any longer, I’m gonna start putting this knife to good use. Y’know…they say the cuts don’t even hurt at first, when the knife’s so sharp. You could be missing more of your body parts than you’d like before you really start to feel it, and by then…” I shrug. “I might not be inclined to stop.”
“All right, all right. Jesus Christ, kid. Ease up.”
I lean into the blade a little, pressing more of weight behind it. A warning. A promise. A threat.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Fuckingstop!” Westbrook snaps, trying to jerk away from the knife. He only succeeds in catching himself on the tip of the knife, though. The slice at his throat I just gave him was only a papercut; if he’s not fucking careful, it’s going to end up cutting hisowncarotid. “Fine! Fine! The bag’s here! It’s fucking here, I swear. Goddamnit, will you back the fuck up! I can’t give it to you if I’m fucking dead.”
I withdraw the knife, plastering a grin across my face. I can see myself reflected in Westbrook’s eyes and boy oh boy do I look fucking insane. So fucking what, though? In situations like these, it helps if people think you might be a little unhinged. “On your feet, then,” I say brightly, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him up. “Show me where the bag is, hand it over, and that’ll be the last you see of me.”
Again, the guy laughs bitterly under his breath. He obviously doesn’t believe that’s true, but he’s smart enough to keep his doubts to himself. His legs are shaky as he heads toward the office door, where he huffs impatiently, arching an eyebrow over his shoulder at me. “You’re gonna have to open it if you want to move this thing along,” he snaps.
I collect the gun I set down on his desk, returning it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back, and then I open the door to Westbrook’s office, holding it for him obligingly. “After you. I insist.”
Westbrook grumbles malevolently as he storms out into the hallway, taking a right and walking off at a fast clip. I follow after him, keeping pace, carefully eyeing every door and hallway that branches off from the main corridor, making sure I’m not about to be taken unawares. It’s Monday, so Gimlet’s, Westbrook’s club, is closed. It’s after six in the evening, so it’s unlikely we’re going to run into anyone, but you never know. It never pays to let your guard down.
At the end of the hallway, Westbrook hangs a left, heading toward a large, rivetted door that’s been painted red. Looks like it’s made out of reinforced steel. Pete juts a hip out, jerking his chin down at the left-hand pocket of his pants. “The key’s in there. I’d tell you to uncuff me so I can get it out, but I’m not stupid enough to think you’d do it.”
“Bully for you. Congrats on not being stupid.” I stick my hand into his pocket and pull out the set of keys quickly. I’d planned on hanging at the bar this afternoon. Paul invited me for a beer, but the moment I stepped foot inside the Rock, Monty had me cornered and was handing off this shitty job to me before I could say no. This wasnothow I’d planned on enjoying one of my only days off this week…and ending up with a handful of another man’s dick and balls is only going to sour my mood further.
There are five keys on the Westbrook’s fob. “Which one?” I demand.
“The gold one, there. The old looking one,” Westbrook mumbles. “It opens both locks.”
