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Executioner.
And none of them are particularly partial to forgiveness.
“Nick,” the asshole gasps, the pathetic nature of his incessant panting piquing my annoyance. “It-it wasn’t me. I swear.”
Staring ahead at the opposite wall, I allow a sigh to escape me. It’s drawn out, heavily laced with irritation at the predictability of the situation. They always go right for denial. Every. Fucking. Time.
I quickly jerk my head side to side, the audible cracks releasing some of the tension in my neck, before tossing the heavy wrench I’m clutching back onto the table. It hits the surface with force, clashing into the other various metal instruments on display with an echoing clang. I turn just in time to see Steven—the douchebag currently hanging from my ceiling like a fucking piñata—violently flinch.
Sporting a neutral expression, I fold my arms across my chest and lean back against the table. “Wasn’t you, you say?”
A flicker of hope passes across his face as he starts nodding eagerly. The movement causes several strands of his greasy jet-black hair to fall into his eyes where it plasters against the sweat-slickened skin of his forehead.
We’ve been at this for hours now, the evidence of my and Rico’s handiwork evident across most of his body. Bound by his arms and suspended from the ceiling by a thick metal chain, his exposed toes barely scrape the concrete as his shudders cause him to lightly sway back and forth. His filthy blood-spattered jeans hang low on his hips, exposing the full length of his torso, which currently resembles a hand carved tic-tac-toe board.
Rico nicked him a little too deep on the last pass, draining a bit more blood than intended. Afraid the fucker would bleed out on us ahead of schedule, I had him start cauterizing some of the wounds—hence, the heated fireplace poker.
This torture timeline is at my discretion. There’s one reason this waste of space is still breathing, and that’s simply because I’m fucking bored. This time of night on a Wednesday, there’s not much to do besides sleep or get your dick wet. I’ve been a functioning insomniac since I was eight, and considering I’ve had a steady stream of women on their knees for me since the tenth grade, fucking some random gold-digger’s face has lost some of its luster. So, when this shithead got dropped in my lap earlier like a mouse in a snake pit, I all but jumped at the opportunity to play with my food.
However, dear old Steve here apparently mistakes my prolonged enjoyment of said extracurricular activities to mean I need something from him, which is why he’s trying to barter information with me by way of lying.
“I swear, Nick. On my fucking mother, I didn’t deal to those kids.”
My left eye tics at the ease with which he’s able to lie on his mother’s life. If I’d had any reservations about the sentence I’d handed down to him, they’re washed away by that one simple statement.
“They approached me,” he says, sniffling, “but I sent em packin’. They were pissy about it. Said they were gonna head over to Hydetown where it’s easier to score.”
I suppress the snicker tickling the back of my throat.
Hydetown is Renegade Rebel territory, run by my so-called competition, Maverick Bishop. At one point we actually were the rivals we currently pretend to be, but then the douche fell in love with my baby sister. It was a massive inconvenience, one which set off a fucked-up chain of events that resulted in us forming a secret alliance—something Mav and I have kept strictly between us these past four years. Not even our men know.
Back then, Mav and I were just two dumbass kids punching above our weight class—the trust fund baby-turned-gangster and the trailer trash gunrunning drug dealer. And while we’ve never been particularly fond of one another, we were unwillingly thrust into a situation that forced us to rely on each other for survival. Decisions had to be made. Decisions that catapulted us to high-ranking players on a whole other level practically overnight. Financially, it’s been great for business. Personally? The collateral damage was catastrophic, mainly that involving my sister, Joanna.
To keep her safe, I had to ship J—my favorite person on this miserable fucking planet—off to college 3,000 miles away in California, and Bishop had to cut all ties. To this day, she has no idea the real reason he broke her heart was for her protection.
You want to know what happens when you rob someone of their reason for living? You get current-day Maverick Bishop. Cold-hearted, trigger happy, pervasively grumpy Maverick Bishop who’d shoot you for coughing too close to him. Yeah, he’s a real fucking peach these days.
That being said, my amusement over Steven’s claim stands. Mav’s a miserable shit with no heart, but we both live by a code, and that code clearly states that under no circumstances are any of our drugs to be distributed to children. It’s a well-known rule explicitly stated to all our dealers. Anyone caught violating the rules is out on the first strike. This fucker’s just grasping at straws, banking that my hatred of Bishop is strong enough to buy this lie he’s attempting to spoon feed me.
This piece of shit wouldn’t know the first thing about what it means to be honorable. Fear and desperation radiate from his trembling form, and I bite back a smirk at how easy he’d be to manipulate. It makes me want to play with him more. String him along so he thinks he’s got a chance of survival, only to rob him of all hope in the end when I skin him alive. However, I notice Rico growing impatient in the background. He peers down at his phone, not even bothering to look up when he twirls his finger in the air as if to say get on with it.
Rico’s not only my second in command, but also my best friend. He’s been with me since I founded the Queen City Dukes straight out of high school. I trust him with my life. There isn’t a task I could give him that he wouldn’t execute flawlessly, but he doesn’t find the same enjoyment in this portion of the work that I do. I don’t hold it against him. For all intents and purposes, he’s the normal one in our little dynamic duo. Considering he’d put a bullet in someone’s head without a second’s hesitation, that’s saying something.
Deciding he’s right—this is enough for one night—I drag one of the folding chairs over to our prisoner, popping it open so it’s facing away from him. Dropping down to straddle the back of the seat, I lean forward, my forearms resting across the back of the chair as I eye him curiously. “You know what burns my ass more than people dealing to kids, Steven?”
He shakes his head. “N-no, Nick. What?”
“People who don’t take accountability for their actions.”
Any remaining color leeches from Steven’s face as Rico removes his weapon from his waistband, preparing for what’s to come.
“Those kids OD’d on South Williams Street,” I press on. “We picked you up two blocks away, holding.”
“We’re all out there h-holding, Nick!” he protests. “We’re w-working! For you!”
“None of my other dealers were anywhere close to that site at the time.”
“I’m telling you, it’s Bishop’s guys!”
