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A spark of stress ignites inside me as I walk over to him and face the monitors. His finger hovers over the play button, and anticipation tingles through my veins like a live wire as we watch the grainy footage.
The silhouette of a man moves stealthily across the dock, shrouded in darkness. His movements are calculated as he skirts around the edge of the cargo ship.
The man’s form disappears briefly behind a stack of crates, only to reemerge moments later, clutching a piece of paper. He slips between two containers, his figure illuminated momentarily by the dim glow of a nearby light. I lean closer to the monitor, my eyes straining to catch any distinguishing features.
“Pause the video,” I say, and Xander freezes the footage with a quick flick of his fingers. The image stutters to a halt as the man hunches over a crate.
I squint, zooming in, desperate for even the faintest glimpse of his face. But his features are obscured by shadows cast by the surrounding cargo.
Frustration gnaws at me as I rewind and play back the footage. “I can’t fucking see a thing,” I complain, pounding my fist on the desk. I want to find this motherfucker and pay him a little visit for threatening me. Xander releases the pause button, allowing the scene to continue.
The perpetrator pries open a seam and tucks the note inside.
As he retreats into the shadows once more, my mind races with questions. Who is he? It can’t be Philip himself, so who did he send to do his dirty work? And if it’s not Philip’s doing, who else could it be?
“There’s one thing we know for sure,” Xander says, breaking the quiet of the room. “This isn’t linked to the thefts, since they were done at different times.”
“Call Evan and tell him about the missing crates. But don’t mention the note.”
Xander nods.
I hate keeping secrets from my brother. We’ve always shared everything. But this time, telling him about the situation I’m in will only serve as a distraction, pulling his attention from what’s truly important.
Avenging Ignatius.
PART II
TWO MONTHS LATER
11
DION
Poutánas yos!” Evander yells as I pummel him to the floor.
He quickly recovers and stands across from me, the sound of our heavy breaths surrounding us.
We circle each other at the center of the mat, and Evan looks at me with something resembling concern. “What the fuck is up with you? You’re fighting me like I’m one of our enemies.”
“You are technically my enemy on the mat, E.”
“Don’t be a smartass. Why the fuck are you using me as a punching bag?” he asks, grunting from exertion.
“We’re fucking boxing, Evan. What do you expect?” I retort.
But what I really want to say is: it’s because I’m sexually frustrated and have been losing my mind for the past two months because a woman I met for only a few hours has ruined me for anyone else.
And trust me, I’ve tried.
A couple weeks after our one night, I decided it was time to wash all memories of Aria’s sweet pussy out of my mind the only way I knew how: balls deep in another woman.
But when I was sitting down in the booth at Academia with a rather attractive woman, the only thing I could see was Aria’s face.
Everything about that chick was wrong: her look, her demeanor, her smell, her voice.
My dick was inverted, like a turtle hiding in its shell that didn’t want to come out to play.
If that had happened to me in any other circumstance, I would’ve taken it as a hit to my ego. I would’ve thought that something was wrong with my dick. But I knew exactly why I was experiencing erectile dysfunction.
