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I don’t know why that doesn’t sit well with me.
* * *
Thirty-two years old
“Please, stop.”
The man’s voice is weak and barely comes out as a whisper. I punch him in his stomach, causing him to double over and spit blood all over the cement floor—and my brand-new fucking boots.
I growl and grab him by the collar, hoisting him up.
“You little shit,” I snarl in his face as I back him into the wall. “I just bought these boots. You gonna pay to get me a new pair?”
His head droops, and his shoulders shake with quiet sobs.
Do I feel bad for what I’m doing? Not in the slightest.
ShouldI feel bad for what I’m doing?
Probably.
In the years after Jihoon’s death, I’ve become even colder and more unrelenting. Brutal. The things that used to bother me simply don’t anymore, and I still haven’t figured out if that’s a good or bad thing. The day of the fire hardened something inside of me, something that had lain dormant for so long I didn’t even realize it was there. It brought out something in me I didn’t know existed. I still don’t know if who I’ve become has anything to do with my upbringing, or if I was just born this way.
“I’m sorry, man.” He starts full on crying. Dylan, I think his name is. How does someone namedDylanend up working in the underworld? He should be playing football and dating a cheerleader. Or surfing, I don’t fucking know, but he sure as hell doesn’t belong here.
Well, he does, because of what he did, but I’m sure his parents wanted better for him. Unlike mine, who were probably expecting me to end up like this.
“What are you sorry for, Dylan? Ruining my brand-new shoes, or stealing fifty grand from my boss?”
Dylan looks over my shoulder at said boss, Ezra James, standing in the shadows, watching our entire encounter. I assume Ezra flashes his gun at him, because the wimp starts crying like a little pussy again.
“Shut up!” I growl as I slam him into the wall and bang his head into the rough brick. “Who do you work for? Dom Carlo?”
Dylan furiously shakes his head. “No! No, I swear! I don’t know who that is. I don’t know who hired me.”
“How do you not know who hired you?” Lee asks from behind me.
Fat tears run down the poor kid’s face. He can’t be older than twenty. “I’ve never seen him before. My friend set up the calls between the two of us, and he used a voice distorter every time we spoke.”
I glare at him, not believing his story one bit.
“Please, listen to me. I was just hired to do a job! I swear I don’t know who hired me.”
“You were told to steal something that doesn’t belong to you, and you did it without question,” I state.
He nods.
“And I bet you were promised a good chunk of the money by the guy that hired you, yeah? But not until you told your boss where our stronghold is located.”
The realization hits him right then—he’s been set up, and he didn’t even know it. And unfortunately for him, he has to die because of it.
Without turning, I call to Lee, “bring me a knife.”
That sets the little boy off. He starts thrashing and screaming, begging and pleading for his life. I knee him in the groin to get him to shut up.
Lee hands me one of his many knives over my shoulder before resuming his place by Ezra’s side.
“Work quickly, brother,” Ezra murmurs from behind me. I turn my head to look at him. His gaze is turned towards the windows at the other side of the room. “I think I hear sirens.”
