Page 65 of 23 Hours

In a show of arrogance, the Russian rests a palm on Niki’s shoulder and the other on Beth’s as he stands between their chairs. A row of thick, gold rings shine under the lights. I wanna laugh at his antiquated mob boss routine. It’s cute.

The scumbag arches a bushy brow in challenge.

See.

I told you he thought he had something there.

Arrogance only gets you so far.

I remain impassive and yawn because I can, my posture lazy, like I have all day.

If he were up against a man like Big, the room would’ve erupted in chaos by now. But I’m not Big. There’s a reason I’m here, and he isn’t.

The brothers behind me grumble their discontent as his faction mocks us in muted laughter from across the way.

Yuk it up, boys. You won’t be smiling when your families welcome you home in body bags.

When I don’t give the Russian the reaction he seeks, he does what any egotistical, small dicked bastard would and forcefully removes Beth’s blindfold before he gropes one of her breasts. It’s cold and callous. A silent tear treks down her cheek as she winces in pain. My gut tightens in response, dying to step in and help. But I can’t. Not yet.

He arches that same brow again. What a cocky, cocky man. A sinister smirk follows at the corner of his mouth.

A brother curses behind me. Another snarls. I say nothing. Give nothing.

“You son of a bitch!” Runner bursts through the doorway and advances on the Russian, not caring about anyone but Beth. Stupid asshole. On instinct, I lurch forward to grab his cut and yank the jackass to safety. I barely get ahold of his back before he twists out of my grasp and powers on, giving zero fucks.

Beth’s watery eyes widen in disbelief as she croaks around her gag, seeing him for the first time in forever.

“Beth!” he roars at the same moment the familiar sound of a gun discharging pulses through the air.

I dive for Runner. Hitting him from the side like a linebacker, we collapse on the floor in a mess of limbs, knocking the wind out of my goddamn lungs as I land on top of him. He doesn’t move. I roll off and turn him onto his back. Blood seeps into the carpet, turning the blue an ugly shade of blue-black as it pools beneath us.

“R-un-Runner, where you hit?” I wheeze as I lean up to jostle him. He still doesn’t respond.

“Runner!” I punch him in the shoulder, waiting for him to open his eyes, groan, something. To give me hell like the stubborn asshole always does.

He does jack all.

I press a finger to the side of his unshaven throat.

Blood trickles down the side of his forehead. That’s when I see it, the hole just below the hairline. The specks of brain matter on the ground around us. In shock, I blink once to focus, then look down at the blood on my hands, at the blood on my shirt, and it soaking into the denim of my jeans.

He’s dead.

Someone killed my brother.

An asshole he may have been, but Runner was still my brother. Will always be my brother.

A pesky tear finds its way from my eye before I swipe it away with the back of my hand. I lay a palm upon Runner’s still heart and wish him a farewell. Emotions I don’t wanna acknowledge unfurl in my chest—ugly, raw, and dangerous.

Closing both eyes for a beat, I inhale a single, profound breath and hold it there as the ache spreads, as my Zen sloughs off, and the glue holding my jagged pieces together melts into a puddle of nothingness. No longer held captive, tendrils of darkness leak into my vision. Most of the world fears our prez because he’s the giant, the dick, the face of the Sacred Sinners… but they don’t know me. They don’t know what happens when I let go. The calm one. The rational one. The one with a murky past he won’t talk about. The boy sold by his mother to the neighborhood whores. The one who unleashes his evil within the confines of depravity. On those willing.

I’m done.

Clenching my jaw, my abs, my pecs, I expel my breath in a rush and twist my head slowly to the side. The room falls quiet, watching the Russian watch me, waiting for a pin to drop. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all.

Smoothly dropping onto my back, half on top of Runner, I rip my gun free from my cut and shoot. You wanna fuck with the Sacred Sinners, you wanna fuck with me, you wanna kill my brother, you wanna touch my women? You’re gonna die.

The first bullet hits the Russian bastard in the shoulder. He staggers backward, catching himself on the top of Niki’s chair in obvious shock. There’s more where that came from.

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