A frown briefly touches his forehead. “Black Deeds? I don’t work for them.”
I stand and smack him hard across the face. “I don’t believe you. Give me the name.”
He looks up at me, anger buried deep in his eyes. “I’m telling you the truth.”
I work my jaw as I reach for my gun. Pressing it firmly to his temple, I roar, “Tell me his fucking name!”
“Shoot me, asshole. I have no name to tell you.” He still thinks I don’t have it in me to kill him.
Taking a step back, I meet his gaze. “You know what? I’ve got some time this morning to spare. I think we might settle in for some fun.”
I return my gun to my jeans and swiftly, before he sees it coming, punch him in the gut. The punch has some force behind it and he cries out in pain. While he’s in that pain, I punch him in the same spot again. And again. And again. Over and over, I develop a rhythm. The way my mind hums along to the rhythm and focuses only on it is what I imagine meditation must be like for people who bother with it.
Time passes and I move from punching his stomach to punching his face. Again, it’s rhythmical. Methodical. Ricardo thinks I’m a pretty boy with no darkness in me; he’s as far from the truth as he can get.
This shit settles me in a way not much else does.
Ricardo has made a serious miscalculation; I never hesitate to embrace my darkness when it’s needed.
My phone sounds with a text and I back away from him to survey my work. He’s a mess and is staring at me with all the hatred in the world. Not that he can do that easily; I’ve beaten him so much that his head is hanging at an odd angle and his eyes struggle to open. Blood covers his face, dripping down to a red pool on the floor that’s filling fast. We’re getting there.
I grab my phone and check the message.
* * *
King: Ricardo isn’t working for Black Deeds, but take care of him so he knows not to fuck with us again.
* * *
“Looks like it’s your lucky day, asshole,” I say as I place my phone down.
Unable to articulate with words, he grunts his response. I can’t be sure, but it seems he’s still trying to argue with me.
Grasping a handful of his hair, I jerk his head up so his eyes meet mine. “King doesn’t want you dead, but he does want me to make sure you know not to fuck with us again. How long do you feel this is going to take for you to get?”
Through the blood and bruising and swelling, he shoots me a filthy glare.
“Fair enough.” I let his head go and leave him for a moment in search of a knife. Locating one, I come back to him and cut one of the cable ties secured around his wrist. Pulling his arm up to rest his hand on the table, I raise the knife and bring it down hard to cut one of his fingers off. His body spasms with pain and he unleashes a tirade of shit I can’t understand. The only words I do make out are the fucks.
Squeezing his cheeks, I demand, “That enough or you want more?”
His lips twist and he sends me a look that clearly says that’s not enough, so I rinse and repeat, cutting a second finger off.
“Fuuuuuck!” he roars, his pain increasing. Good.
He jerks so violently that the chair falls back. His head cracks against the floor when he lands. I step over him, my feet either side of his body. “Another?”
With agony etched into every line of his face, he challenges me, “Try it.” His chest rises and falls as he pulls air in. “You won’t like the consequences.”
I punch his face. “You are so full of shit. The other night you were pissing your pants.”
“Yeah, well I’ve lined up my allies since then. I’m not fucking scared of your club now.”
I punch him again. Harder this time. “You should be. Whoever your allies are, they’re idiots. Everyone in Sydney knows not to go against King.”
He doesn’t respond to that, so I do as he challenged; I cut a third finger off. I have to fight him for this one, though, and end up on the floor with him, smearing his blood all over my hands and arms in the process.
“I’m getting a feel for your stubbornness,” I say as I push up off the floor, sweaty and pissed off. “Something tells me I could cut all your fingers and toes off and you’d still fucking fight me.”