“Business then?”
Business. I undo my cufflinks and roll my sleeves up, losing my tie after the restriction around my wrists has gone. All day. Every day. Shirt. Tie. Vest and suit. It’s the appearance needed for my standing in this society, something only she sees beneath when she takes them from me at the end of the day. The dirt sits there under these clothes. My past. She gets to see it inked into my skin and feel it under her touch.
All of it.
This fuck sits at my table dressed in the same, all of it trying to emasculate me in some way. Quinn Cane was right. They are arrogant little fucks. Pushing. Creeping in. Trying to force a path that isn’t there. I wasn’t sure at first. Thought maybe they were worth talking to irrespective of his desire for cooperation, but not now.
Not after this.
I take a spoonful of my dessert, cream easing my dry mouth of hatred, and look at him as he begins discussing terms and feasibilities again. He pushes a file at me, the blue folder heaving with paperwork and documents. There's a mark on the front of it—their seal, crossed swords over a dragon's tail. It’s artistic, if not fucking ridiculous.
“If these were signed, we could hold up the east side, let China Town expand its distribution. It would be easier for you to...” My brow furrows, as a sour taste invades my senses, and I look at the plate below my hand. “…manage the west side without interference from. . .” The word brings my eyes slowly back to his.
“Interference?”
“I mean. . . I didn’t mean that.” Yes, he did.
I stare, waiting for answers he doesn’t have to give anymore. There’s nothing left for him in this room now, unless some sign from God intervenes. Discussions are done here. Finished.
“The hierarchy would just allow you to. . .” My head tilts, the word annoying me more than the last one.
“Allow?” I question.
“Yes. I mean that they would. . .”
He doesn’t get the rest of the words from his mouth. Black is all I see. I’m at his side before he dares breathe another fucking word, the back of his neck in my fingers as his head slams down against my table. Mine. All mine. He dares come in here, look at her, and then talk of hierarchy?
He struggles in my hold, arms flailing as if he might be able to outmaneuvering this Hell he’s walked into. He can’t. And won’t. Nothing does once it’s looked at her.
“Should have done your homework.” My hand twists him over, my knee pinning his chest down as my other hand grabs at his jaw. “Shouldn’t have looked at what wasn’t yours.”
His eyes flare, fear travelling through them as I increase the pressure and then push him further into the middle of the table so I can get up on the dick. That’s what he is—a dick. This was finished the second his eyes looked at her legs, over the moment a smile tipped his dirty lips.
I reach for my plate, grabbing at the spoon. He struggles again, his body quivering and thrashing beneath me. He’s strong, might have been useful if he hadn’t been so damn stupid.
“Did you like what you saw?” My arm crushes his windpipe, increasing the pressure and shoving him again to emphasise my point. “She’s exquisite, isn’t she?” More shaking beneath me. More panting breaths and trembling lips. I shunt in harder, my weight countering every move he’s trying to make. “I don’t like people looking at her.”
He stills a bit, remorse flashing for his stupidity. It means nothing now. It’s happened. Too late to take it back or apologise. I brace harder, my thighs squeezing together to give me leverage, and then bring the spoon to his eye. He won’t look at her again. He won’t look at anything again, and the first dig of metal into slick orbs of fear prove it.
The metal gouges the flesh, scooping to the back like a grapefruit that needs feeding out. It’s precise, levelled by a hand that’s done it time and time again, regardless of the shouts of pain coming from beneath. Empty is what these eyes of his will be now. Empty and fucking hollowed of stupidity. Maybe he’ll be alive when my vengeance is through; maybe he won’t. I care nothing for the end result as I rip at his face and squash his other cheek into the table, only that he won't see.
His grunts and screams mangle out through his throat as I dig in again. I hardly hear it. I’m lost in my own world of disgust, barely registering his objections. It has me tilting my head, though, my own eyes staring into what’s left of his, getting real close in. This is the last thing he’ll see. Benjamin Vico. He’ll remember it if he lives, remember the look of animosity lining my brow, because this is how the game is played when someone dares enter my realm to question me.
The squelch that comes as I pry the final eyeball free has me smiling and loosening my hold on him immediately, as his body goes lax. I land on the floor and stare for a minute, rubbing my beads around my wrist, and watch the look of him grasping the air for help. None will come. Not until I'm ready to release him. Guess he'll crawl home, back to the Yakuza cunts he came from. Beg them for forgiveness maybe. I snort. He'll get none there either.
I search the table for a napkin, wiping the spoon and my fingers before walking back to my chair and sitting to finish my dessert. It’s done for now. Finished.
Just as it should be.
He wails and rolls around, hands scrabbling for something to help him until he crashes against the chair and tumbles to the ground below. Then he crawls around my feet, perhaps searching for the mutilated globes I’m staring at. They’re bloody and defaced from my torture, lifeless and unable to see anymore, crimson sprayed on the white cloth around them. I take another scoop of my dessert, wondering if they’ve somehow retained the ability to register me, transferring the image to his brain. Interesting thought.
“Stupid,” I mutter, another spoonful of dessert following the word until my plate is cleared. Stupid and reckless.
Still, at least they've got a message coming one way or another.
I've sealed that with blood now. Just for them.
Fuck off.
