My gut was telling me who was behind this. If they weren't willing to listen to me, I'd go and figure out for myself whether or not I was right.
Fuck theclub.
Chapter 7
Dante
My hands were tied behind my back, and I was hauled down the stairs into a basement before I was tied to a chair. I had to smother a laugh at the irony.
I was finally getting a taste of my own medicine and understanding how Rachel felt the night I met her.
This shit was uncomfortable.
But at least Rachel didn't have a stab wound in her back and a throbbing headache to boot.I always told her she was ungrateful for the way I had treated her.
That’s bullshit, and you know it.
Yeah, I did. But if I didn’t make jokes, I’d have to sit and think about what an asshole I was, and I wasn’t ready to face that reality, either.
Four men entered the room with me, and I knew, I just fucking knew, one of them was Macbeth. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, the same as it always did whenever he was at my back.
And it wasn’t a fear thing. It was instinct. When a rat is at your back ready to strike, you can sense its approach.
“Having fun, Mac?” I asked, not turning around to look at him.
“That shit might have been spooky when we were kids, but that's long gone.”
“Okay,” I said, and went to shrug my shoulders. I gritted my teeth as my arms pulled against the restraints.
“I mean it, Dante. You’re not the one in control here. I am. And knowing when I’ve entered the room without looking at me isn’t going to make me wobble. Play your mind games elsewhere.”
“Mind games,” I half laughed, half scoffed. “Okay.”
“Cut it out.”
“Cut what out?”
Oh, my God. I was turning into Rachel.
These simple, bored answers were exactly how she would have approached this situation.
“You know what you’re doing, and it’s pissing me off. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be and don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”
“Something you’ll regret? Mate, you still won't step where I can see you. You won’t come out from behind your henchmen. I think I’m good,” I replied, keeping my voice even and not letting any trace of anger betray me. Macbeth thrived on getting a rise out of me. I tested the handcuffs around the chair, but they didn't budge. Not that it mattered.
“You don't need to see me for what's about to happen.”
I rolled my eyes. “What B rated movie have you dragged me into? Scenery is shit, budget is shit, acting… shit.”
“Enough!” a male voice snapped. I squinted my eyes as a large man came around the front of the chair and stood in front of me. He looked familiar, but not familiar enough for me to place him. He reminded me of someone, yet not a close enough reminder to pull the face to the front of my mind.
“I'm not interested in brotherly bickering. Macbeth can deal with you in whatever way he sees fit when I'm done here. But first things first,” he said, stepping towards me and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “You have something that belongs to me and my family, and I want it back.”
“A set of balls?”
“Funny guy. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
