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He comes at me before I have a chance to defend myself. Barrelling across the room, he crashes into me. Gripping my shirt, he slams me against the wall and demands, “Are you fucking my daughter?”
Fuck.
I grit my teeth. “No.”
His eyes are harder than I’ve ever seen them when he yanks me forward and then pushes me back again. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Fury. I just saw her come out of the bedroom hallway. I then saw you come out of the same area. I’m only going to ask you this one more time: Are you fucking Zara?”
My own anger surfaces and heat flushes through me. Tensing, I grind out, “I’m not in the business of lying, King. I haven’t fucked her.”
Tension so thick you could cut through it settles over us as we face off. King’s my president and I respect the hell out of him. He pulled me up from the gutter years ago and saved me from a life that was slowly killing me. But if he thinks I’ll stand here and take much more of this shit from him, he’s mistaken.
Finally, he says, “If I find out that whatever the fuck is going on between you two has gone any further, you’ll wish like hell it hadn’t. Zara’s getting her life sorted. She doesn’t need any distractions.”
I ball my fists. “We done here?”
“No we’re not fucking done here,” he snaps, letting me go and taking a step back. “I need you on a job tonight. Stark wants that Italian to disappear. Turns out he’s become a liability she doesn’t need. I’ll text you the address.”
“Anything else?” I can’t dial back my temper; my question punches out of me bitterly.
His nostrils flare as anger blazes brighter from him. “Don’t fucking test me, brother.”
I’ll do this job for him, but first I’ll need a strong fucking drink. It won’t come close to taking the edge off, but it’ll be a good fucking start.
I locate the Italian faster than I thought I would. He’s at the address King sent me to, and he’s alone. Two factors that make my life easier.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he says when I locate him in his bathroom. He’s under the shower jerking off and quickly lets go of his dick as he moves to defend himself.
He has no hope of success here, but the fight always fuels me, so I slow and wait for his first punch. As it comes my way, I twist sideways and kick my leg up so my foot connects hard enough with his side to knock him into the wall. The thud of his head against the tiles urges me on, towards my goal. He grunts and attempts to straighten, but I’m on him before he has the chance. I charge at him, grabbing him by the neck with both hands. Spinning us around, I slam him against the vanity. I then smash the back of his head into the mirror, shattering glass everywhere. As he grunts and fights me with his arms and legs, I punch him hard in the face.
“I’ve had a really fucking bad day,” I roar, wiping sweat from my face, smearing blood across my skin in the process. “We can do this fast or we can drag this shit out. Your choice. But I’m really fucking down with taking our time if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He sucks ragged breaths in, wincing from the pain I’ve dealt. I’ve knocked all the energy out of him; he’s not putting up any kind of fight anymore.
When he doesn’t speak, I say, “You getting a sense of déjà vu here? You, me, and a bathroom. Broken glass. You in a world of hell.” I pull my blade from its sheath and move closer to him. Pressing it to his neck, I say, “Difference this time is that you won’t be breathing by the time I’m done with you.” I draw blood and add, “Come on, motherfucker, fight me. Give me something. Any-fucking-thing.”
He roars to life, pushing himself off the vanity and wrapping his arms around me. Tackling me to the ground, he knocks the knife from my hand and punches my face.
Fuck yes.
I let the pain stab through me while allowing him to get a few more jabs in.
I want it.
Welcome it.
It’s a blast of bright light.
A jagged slice through the monotony of my days.
Pain shocks me back to life every fucking time. Delivering it and receiving it. Nothing comes close to touching me in the same way. My father would have been proud of what he created. A son in his image. A goddam fucking monster who takes joy in suffering.
“Turns out you’re the one who won’t be breathing by the time we’re finished,” the Italian thunders as he punches me again.
The blow sends my head sideways against the dirty floor of his bathroom. Blood and saliva splatter on the wall next to me.
I’m a bloody mess from all the hits he’s inflicted.
He thinks he knows how this is going to end.
