Page 95 of Precious Legacy
Slowly, the pieces are starting to come together, and I don’t like the picture it’s presenting. Prescott was at the raid last week, which confirms my suspicions about the cops being paid by someone else to take down the fight club. It almost felt too coincidental that the night we set a new agreement with the Russians, the cops raided my place.
I’d be impressed if it weren’t for the fact the Russians never covered up their tracks, and now I’m facing a pretty badly beat up Prescott, bound to the metal chair in the middle of the basement of The Ravenite. Apparently, he put up a bit of a fight when Cillian grabbed him this morning. He already had a black eye, so I’m not to blame for that, but the fact that he was already sporting some injuries suggests his employer isn’t too happy with him, either.
As much as my fingers itch to put a bullet between his eyes, I refrain. I need to be methodical about this because he’s still Lani’s training officer and I agreed to let her dole out her own vengeance. But I need to send a message to the Russians to let them know that we’re the ones who own the city, not them.
Varo stands in the back corner, watching with a sadistic smile on his face as I slide my steel knuckles over my fingers.
“You know you’re a dead man,” Prescott sneers through a bloodied mouth. His attempt at a threat is child’s play. When you have a family like mine, torture becomes second nature. I’m not saying I’m untouchable, but I’ve gotten good at being in my position and not Prescott’s, so his words don’t land as they’re intended.
I laugh incredulously, examining the steel decorating my fingers. “We’re all dead men. Some just meet their demise sooner than others.”
Before he can register my movement, I swing my arm forward, my fist slamming into the center of his face. His nose explodes seamlessly, blood spraying up and outward. It’s a beautiful display of premeditated chaos, the delicious sound of his nose crushing beneath a torturous force.
Prescott screams out, the sound echoing around us. I’d feel sorry for the guy if he wasn’t such a prick. Aside from working for our enemies, he made the mistake of going after Lani. While it’s part of our lives to have our families in the line of fire, I’ll live and die by the rule that anyone who touches her will meet the same fate or worse.
I’m still undecided what his fate will be right now, but taking some of my pent-up rage out on him will definitely help.
“All this because of your stupid girlfriend?” he hisses at me, a stunning crimson flow cascading from his nose. His eyes are dark, with what, I’m not sure, and I don’t think I want to. There’s intent behind that glazed-over glare, though, which only spurs my fury on.
Grabbing him by his hair, I yank his head back. “That’s where you’re wrong. Believe it or not, she’s the only reason you’re still breathing. No, this is aboutyouand the Russians. You think we wouldn’t find out that you’re being paid by them?Werun this city, not them!”
His eyes widen, and I know I’ve got him right where I want him.
“You might as well kill me, Genovese. I don’t know anything.” His words seem certain, but his voice trembles. I have no doubt he’s telling the truth because we trust cops as much as we trust our enemies do. There’s no way the Russianswould involve the likes of Prescott in their plans. He’s just a tool, a fucking pawn to sacrifice to the slaughter.
A distraction.
I stand to my full height, overshadowing his bloodied figure. “That’s where you’re in luck,” I explain boredly. “You see, my girl won’t be too happy if I kill you. But I need to send a message…” I pace back and forth in front of him, pretending I’m actually thinking about my options. The truth is, I’ve already decided what I want to do with him, but watching him squirm like the fucking snake he is, that’s priceless.
“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” he warns. “One way or another, the Russians will take everything from you.”
His threat has the opposite effect, because when it comes to The Five, he’s severely underestimating us. Yes, the body count is less, but we have an entire generation backing us, Lucchese and Colombo included.
I stare down at Prescott— who looks far too smug for my liking— and all I can think about is wiping that look off his face. Or destroying it.
My knuckles crunch under the weight of the metal adorning them. I can feel the blood on my fingers, dry and crisp. “Thanks for the message,” I bite back, leaning down to curl my fist in his shirt. With my other hand, I pull my knife from my pocket, flicking the blade out. The metal shimmers under the light hanging defeatedly above Prescott. It’s only a small blade, but it’ll do enough damage. Running the blade down his temple, I trace his eye-socket with the point, the skin going white under the slight pressure. “For now, I’m focusing on those who wronged me. Andthatincludes you. What’s the saying again?”
Prescott gulps, and when I slide my gaze to my best friend, Varo smirks in approval.
“I believe the saying is, an eye for an eye,” he supplies.
“What?” Prescott’s eyes widen. The sweat trickling down his temple is the only sign I need to know he’s realized just how fucked he is. “Wait!” he pleads as I reposition the knife. His eyes dart between Varo and I, and it’s almost entertaining to see him so terrified.
Almost.
I prefer to get my satisfaction from the act of torture itself. Hearing a grown man being brought to his knees and begging for his life has its advantages, but there’s no better feeling than the warmth of blood, fresh from the body, slipping between your fingers.
Varo stands with his back against the wall, silently observing as I step behind Prescott, pinning him down with my palm to his forehead as I dig the knife into his flesh. The blade slices the skin of the eye-socket seamlessly, and I relish the screams that leave Prescott’s throat. He fights and fights, but my uncle’s binds are so tight that only his head has any wriggle room. It’s not much either, and with my weight holding his head back, it makes it easy to lodge the blade behind his eyeball.
Blood flows warm and slick between my fingers. Prescott’s cries fill the room in a symphony that would make my dad proud. I smile as the squelching sound of my blade slicing through tendons becomes the melody. The resounding pop is the crescendo I need before the screams of a tortured man die out.
Pacing around Prescott’s limp body, I drop his eyeball into his lap. The empty socket left behind is morbidly satisfying.
“Well, that’s a message, for sure,” Varo comments with a smile.
“Let’s hope the Russians understand it, then,” I growl.
Rage starts to tighten my muscles. I know this is going to be a declaration of war—if one hasn’t started already—but theRussians are pushing through our territory and we’ve been too lax. We need to be firm on setting boundaries.
