The Wrong Kind of Love

He doesn’t answer, and I lower the gun, popping one off in his kneecap. He howls, grabbing at his leg as he hits the floor with a thud.

“Someone is going to call the cops if he keeps screaming like a banshee.”

Mussa’s attention darts to Tor. “Not now, Tor,” I say, kneeling down and fisting his hair, turning his face back to me. “Where is he, Mussa?”

He spits in my face, and I lose my shit. I whack the pistol across the side of his head. Blood splatters my shirt as his eyes roll back for a split-second. “Tell me, Bookie, is her pussy as sweet as Tom said?”

I see red. I drop the gun and grab his throat and squeeze. I want to feel the life leave him, and then I want to kill him all over again. Mussa’s hands clasps at mine, tugging and pulling as he gasps for breaths I won’t give him.

Tor steps into my periphery, bending to pick up the gun. There’s a calm about her I’ve not seen in a long time. Sometimes revenge is the key to surviving. I damn well know that.

“Send Tom a message for me.” Then she places the barrel against his crotch and pulls the damn trigger. Holy shit, when did Tor become so violent? The messed up part is, it's making my dick hard.

Mussa’s screaming when she hands the gun back to me, then moves to the adjoining bathroom. She comes back out with a washcloth and rams it in his mouth.

And my dick can’t get much harder. I grab her wrist and drag her down to me, kissing her before I turn back to the dickless bastard. “Let me be real straight with you, Mussa. I’m going to blow your fucking head off, but if you tell me where Tom is, I won’t touch your son.”

His brows tug together and I see it right there, the fear. He may not give a shit about his life. But everyone has a limit. I pull the washcloth out, and he pulls in several uneven breaths.

"He's…” He grunts, throwing his head back in pain. “He’s out of the country.”

"Where?"

"I don't..." He chokes on a painful moan. "I don't know. He doesn't tell me things like that."

"Who does he tell then? Who knows everything about Joe?"

He hesitates.

"It can take an awfully long time to be beaten to death if the person dishing out the beating knows what they're doing, Mussa. Don't make this worse on yourself. Die with some fucking dignity. "

"Stan Solomon."

I reach into his coat pocket and take his cell phone. I scroll through his contacts. "Is he in here?"

He nods just as I find his name in the directory. "See, that wasn't so hard now was it?” I say as I place the gun to his temple and pull the trigger.

His body slumps to the side, and I move across the room, grabbing the duffel bag I brought with me from the side of the bed Tor is sitting on. I stop and run my fingers through her hair, then give her a kiss.

I drop the bag beside Mussa’s body and unzip, looking at Tor when I pull the hacksaw out. “You’re not gonna want to see this.”

Her gaze drifts to the saw, and disgust crawls over her face. "Do I want to know what you are going to do with that?"

"Start a fucking war."

“Excuse me while I go throw up.” She goes to the bathroom and closes the door.

I crank the saw, then grab Mussa's thick hair and place the blade to his throat. When it hits his spine, the saw catches, and I hear her turn the taps on. I’ll admit, even for me, decapitating corpses is disgusting, but as the saw finally makes its way through and Mussa’s head rolls off, I imagine the expression on Tom’s face when he hears that not one, but two of his right men’s heads have been delivered to one of his businesses.

I finish up, cramming the head inside the duffel bag before I get Tor out of the bathroom.

Her face pales when she takes in my blood-soaked shirt and arms. “You look like a serial killer.”

Tor

Marney sits at the breakfast bar, drinking his coffee and reading the paper when I get downstairs. This has become somewhat mundane…with the occasional wild card of Jude taking a hacksaw to someone.

"You told—"

"No." I cut him off as I make my way to the fridge. I open it and take out the carton of orange juice, pouring it into a glass. "You ask me the same thing every morning, Marney. I'll let you know..." I open the freezer and drop the carton of juice on a screech, and it splashes my legs. "Are you serious?" There, in the freezer, is Mussa, his bloodied head sitting there like a damn bust. Vomit rises in my throat, and I slam the freezer door shut, leaning my head against it.