Vincent's POV
I'm in the basement of one of my warehouses, with a guest who thought crossing me was a clever idea. We've been trading words for a few minutes now, and his voice is beginning to grate on my nerves.
"You know, you talk too damn much for someone who hasn't given me a single word I actually want to hear," I say, my tone deceptively patient. But there's nothing patient about me.
"Fuck you," he spits, bloodied lips curling into a sneer.
My men must have given him a proper invitation—he's already a mess, bruised and bleeding.
I lean closer, smirking. "Oh, I'll definitely fuck someone… but you won't be alive to witness or hear about it."
He continues to throw insults, each one more colorful than the last, and at this point, my patience has snapped. I open the small metal box on the table beside me—a little collection of tools reserved for moments exactly like this.
His eyes widen as I take out a pair of steel pliers, sharp-edged and rusted from too much use. They aren't meant for construction. They're meant to take things apart—finger by finger, joint by joint.
The flicker of fear in his eyes is almost better than the truth I'm after. Almost.
"This shouldn't surprise you," I murmur, turning the pliers slowly in my hand so he sees every angle. "You've been in my circle long enough to know what happens when someone betrays me. And yet…" I crouch in front of him, gripping his jaw. "You chose to sell me out to one of my rivals. Because of you, I lost two of my men."
I squeeze his jaw until he winces. "You can tell me who you're working for, and I'll make your death quick. Or you can stay stubborn, and I'll take my time—finger by finger. And when I'm done with your hands…" I let the pliers click for emphasis, "…I'll cut your dick off and leave you here overnight. Tomorrow, maybe you will be more cooperative."
He knows I'm not bluffing. Everyone who has crossed me knows I always keep my word—especially when it's ugly. I have too many enemies, but only a few would have the audacity to infiltrate my circle. I need one name. A specific name.
Still, he doesn't budge. If anything, there's a flicker of defiance in his bloodshot eyes that almost amuses me. So he wants to be tortured. Fine by me.
I grip his right hand in my glove, inspecting it as though it's a specimen I might dissect.
He chuckles hoarsely, voice raw. "Bet you'd be a real artist in another life. Too bad all you know how to paint with is blood."
My pliers clamp down on his pinky. He groans, writhing in the chair, sweat dripping down his temple. I move torturously slow, savoring every twitch of his body. Then I snap the second finger, his curses growing louder, harsher—words slurred with pain.
It's not until I reach the fourth finger that his resolve cracks. His chest heaves, spit mixing with blood as he spits out words between clenched teeth and ragged gasps.
"F-Fuck—you… y-you want a name?!" His voice breaks as the pressure on his knuckle tightens. "It was—It was R—" he chokes, wheezing through the agony, "…Ronan! Ronan sent me! He… he knew where to find you."
His head falls back, trembling in the chair, every word ripped out of him like a confession carved in blood.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" I mutter, flexing my hand as I peel off the blood-soaked glove. "Shame you made me ruin my gloves."
He manages to spit out one last curse, something about them coming for me. Empty threats. The kind of garbage I've heard too many times from men who thought they mattered. I don't care.
I reach for the gun on the table, level it at his face, and lock onto his wild, hateful eyes. For a moment, there's silence—just his ragged breathing filling the room. Then I pull the trigger.
The bullet tears through his skull, and the force knocks him backward, chair and all. He hits the ground hard, body twitching as life bleeds out of him. I watch his final breaths fade, expressionless. Another loose end tied up. Another stain on my soul.
This is what life looks like in the mafia—blood and betrayal. I've lived in this chaos since I was seventeen. It's dirty, it's merciless… but I'll be damned if it isn't thrilling. My hands are drenched in blood, yet I've never once regretted the choices that carved me into the person I am.
But even monsters carry ghosts. Mine is the death of my parents. Years have passed, but the image of their bodies still shadows me. My father's murder left me with no choice but to rise, to take his place as Alpha. And though I've clawed my way into power, I've never forgotten the man behind their deaths. I can't reach him directly—not yet. But his daughter… she's within my grasp.
Our marriage will serve many purposes. Revenge. Control. And it will silence the council's endless demands about my bachelorhood.
The only thing I know about her is her name. The rest.., well I don't care about it.
I strip off the ruined gloves, slide my watch back onto my wrist, and step out of the basement. My men straighten when they see me.
"Jarell," I call, my voice flat, "clean up that mess."
Without another glance back, I head toward my car. The city night swallows us as we drive off, but my thoughts are elsewhere. They drift back to the girl I crossed paths with only hours ago.
I know I won't find her if I go back to the club. Too many hours have passed, and girls like her… they don't linger. She had the look of someone sheltered, protected. Untouched by dirt like me.
It would be best not to ruin her.
******