He Hates Me (Hate & Love Duet 1)

The bravery from earlier disappears, leaving a complete trembling mess behind, blood dripping, eyes swollen, legs broken.

A useless dog.

I knew threatening his family would get me the response I needed, and that’s why I kept it for last. It’s the fun-ruiner, the fight-breaker.

Humans with weaknesses are the easiest to smash. They’re ruthless animals on the field, but they leave liabilities behind for people like me to feast on.

Serrano tells me everything I need through clenched, crimson-painted teeth. The location of the money, the people who helped him. Everything.

He doesn’t even beg anymore. We’ve been acquaintances for more than ten years. He should know begging never works with me, not when my knife is out, ready to carve up some faces.

After he’s done, I straighten up and snatch back my blade, causing a burst of blood to rip from his shoulder. He still has blood to spare. Interesting.

“A-Are you going to hurt them?” He stares up at me.

That weakness again. He’s forgotten all about himself and is begging for mercy for his little cubs.

“Depends on how much of that money they spent.” I tilt my head to the side. “But you won’t be here to find out.”

“They didn’t, they…” he trails off, having noticed how my expression has turned to utter boredom. “If you spare them, I’ll tell you something no one told you before.”

I lean over to him, pretending to have an interest in what he has to say.

His eyes light up, ears heating with the force of his excitement. There’s an interesting power in hope, it makes people forget their screwed-up situations and bathe in that moment of thrill. Maybe that’s why most of them are useless.

Playable. Disposable. Fucking morons.

“You were never a dog, Jasper. Costa has always —”

I jam my knife in his jugular, cutting him off mid-sentence, then twist it until the sound of tendons being cut fills the air, which still smells of his piss, might I add.

His eyes roll back until the whites are the only things visible. Then, my favorite part happens. They turn vacant.

There. Much better. Silent. Calm.

That’s the problem with Serrano. He talks too much, even when he’s dying. Besides, I never said I was interested in whatever propaganda he was about to spout.

I twist my neck to the side as I stand up. A cut throbs in my side —the only injury Serrano had been able to deliver.

Another cut to add to my little jar of a thousand of them.

I retrieve my phone and dial the only contact on my phone.

“Lucio Costa.”

It’s curious why he would say that, knowing it’s me. But Lucio is the type who likes throwing his name around every chance he gets, so there’s that.

“Nathan Serrano is done.” I stare down at his corpse and then at the knife dripping blood on my Italian shoes.

Shame. I actually liked these shoes.

Maybe I got carried away. Traitors get that response from me.

The storage room’s door barges open, letting the outside world’s air trample over my masterpiece of the night. It chases away the smell of piss though, so there’s that.

I don’t reach for my gun or move from my place near Serrano’s corpse. Only a few people know about this location and they’re all Costas. No one dares to barge into the wealthiest, most notorious crime family in the city. Even the police are our allies. If they saw me, they’d turn the other way, or better yet, they’d clean the storage for me.

A man in his early fifties strolls inside with a phone to his ear and a smug grin plastered on his face. He’s wearing a dark brown Italian-cut suit and Prada shoes he takes so much pride in.

His taste hasn’t changed for the past twenty-one years I’ve known him. Except for the white hairs that appear on his nape which he usually has his coiffeur dye them back to brown.

Lucio Costa.

The heartless devil of Chicago who occupies the throne of the king.

“I can see that.” He stops in front of me, staring down at Serrano’s lifeless body with disinterest. “Where the fuck is my money?”

“Trust funds and deposit boxes. I have the numbers.”

“Good.” He snaps his fingers and his two closest men barge in like hyenas for the lion’s prey.

Stephan and Marco are both buff and merciless, bigger than me, harder than me, with mean faces and the cliché mafia image, but they know better than to fuck with me.

“Marco.” Lucio snaps his fingers between us, a hint of his Italian accent showing through. “Go get my fucking money back. Every last dime.”

As he barks his orders, I lean down and wipe my hands on the small piece of Serrano’s clothes that isn’t tainted in blood. I try to, anyway. There’s no such place.

I rise to my feet and fetch my jacket from the chair and throw it over my shoulder. Blood has made its way to my white shirt. Another wardrobe gone wrong, but it’s proof of a job perfectly done.