The Brit

Brad sees me and comes over, trying to usher me away. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Fucked if I know, but he doesn’t want you here.”

Brad is halted from trying to shift me when Ringo appears, dragging a bewildered-looking Pedro with him. “What the fuck, man?” Pedro yells, stumbling along.

Danny’s eyes jump from me to his old friend. And he smiles. Wide, bright . . . and one thousand percent deadly. Brad’s spare hand goes to his hip, resting on his gun, ready to draw.

“Pedro,” Danny sings, arms extended in front of him, as if inviting him in for a hug. “I’m just so fucking pleased to see you.”

Pedro still looks clueless, his worried eyes bouncing between Danny and his men. “What is this?”

Danny steps forward, and Pedro starts to retreat, only getting a few paces before he backs into Ringo. “I’m just gutted you don’t remember me.” Danny reaches for his cheek and draws a line down his scar. “How could you forget me, Pedro?”

My lungs drain, my hand coming up to my mouth to try and push back my gasp.

“Oh fuck,” Brad breathes, confirming what I think I know. He moves in front of me, blocking my view. No. Something sick and disgusting inside me wants to see this. I step to the side, bringing Danny back into my sights. His blue eyes are dancing, pure joy mixed with hatred. The penny has dropped for Pedro. His eyes are wide. His body tense, ready to fight. I pity him.

“We were kids, Danny.”

“Just kids.” Danny nods, pulling something from his jacket pocket. A switchblade. He releases the blade and inspects it. “I think mine’s sharper.” He looks up and smirks.

Pedro’s hands come up, his body moving back until Ringo shoves him forward. My eyes are burning with the need to blink, yet they refuse, as if scared they’re going to miss it. But I’m forced to turn when Pedro’s friends crash into the alleyway. They skid to a stop. Take in the scene. Then hold their hands up, backing away when Brad pulls his gun out. “You should have stayed in the restaurant, boys.” Brad nods to Ringo, who moves in, along with a few more of Danny’s men.

“No, wait,” one guy says, tripping up a trash bag as he backs away. The other turns to run and gets no farther than the end of the alleyway. Both men are seized, and I watch in silence as they’re held against the wall by guns to their foreheads.

“Come to watch?” Danny asks, pulling my attention back his way.

“I’m sorry,” Pedro whimpers.

“I’m not.” Danny steps forward calmly and lashes the blade across Pedro’s forehead, opening up his flesh with one long slash.

The squeal of pain is piercing, his hands shooting up to his head. Another slash, this one across the back of his hand, slicing through muscles, tendons and probably even bone. His hands drop and Danny’s arm moves so fast, it’s a mere blur, though accurate, slicing up Pedro’s face from his chin, through his nose, his eye, and crossing the gash on his forehead. He drops to his knees, screaming, his bloody hands slipping across his face. And still, I don’t take my eyes off the gruesome sight. Danny rounds Pedro’s kneeling frame, coming in close behind him. Taking his hair, he yanks his head back so he’s forced to look the man who’s about to kill him in the eye. Danny’s face is a picture of pure evil. Pedro’s is a picture of pure fear.

“Please,” he sobs.

The smirk that crosses Danny’s face multiplies that evil by a million. “I was ten. I didn’t cry, and here you are, a grown, dribbling man, begging for it to stop.” He bends and gets up close. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for years. I’ve imagined all the ways and all the places I’d cut you.” Holding him in a headlock, he takes the blade to his cheek and starts carving a circle while Pedro screams and begs for mercy. I don’t realize my feet are moving forward until Brad takes hold of my arm, stopping me, and I look up, seeing him shaking his head mildly.

“What is he doing?” I ask, casting my eyes back to Danny, who’s now flicking the knife out from the edges of the circle, like he could be adding flashes of color to a painting.

“He’s carving the family emblem,” Brad answers.

Pedro is quiet now, and when Danny releases him and he falls face-forward to the concrete, I realize he’s passed out. Danny wipes the blooded knife across the back of the lifeless man’s jeans and slips it into his pocket, pulling his suit jacket in before turning and striding toward us. “Finish it,” he says to one of his men as he passes, collecting me from Brad. “And get rid of the witnesses.” With his hand in the center of my back, he guides me back to the car. I’m quiet and willing, constantly checking his deadpan face for any hint of emotion. There’s nothing.