Fair enough. I’m a man who keeps my word. “Let him loose,” I order. My security detail does as I say, but every gun in the place remains trained on the brute.
He rubs his thick forearms when they’re finally free. Deep red rope burns are tattooed into his skin.
“Why did you call the Gazette?” I probe, glaring down the oddity with barely withheld rage.
Brutus wipes some crusty dried blood from the corner of his lip. His half-alive eyes wander the dark warehouse before landing on Juan. The two men have their own little stare down before Brutus rips his eyes back onto me.
“I’ll tell you why.” His voice is deep and coarse. There’s a tinge of rage lining his words, but there’s also something else. Hopelessness? Helplessness? I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I coldly study the goon, desperately trying to keep my anger out of the equation. I’ve learned my lesson from the gala. A leader doesn’t let his frustration boil over if it can hurt his team. Right now, Brutus holds something invaluable: the reason why he betrayed me. If I let my personal feelings get in the way of extracting that information, then I don’t deserve to be on top.
Brutus coughs, his gaze meandering around my face, as if he’s not quite sure if he can look me fully in the eyes or not. “I don’t want to work for some pansy businessman,” he finally grunts. “I’m a fighter, always have been always will be.”
The glass bottle I’m keeping my rage in shakes, splintering along the sides, but I keep the cork in. “So, you decided to sabotage my chances of going clean?” I growl. My fingernails dig into my palms, but I keep my gaze focused. There’s more. There has to be more.
Brutus doesn’t respond. I step forward, vengeful fury seething out of my pores. “Why now?” I demand. “It’s no secret that I’ve been washing my operation for years. So, why not two years ago? Why not three? Why now!?” My voice echoes through the dark warehouse, shaking the loose aluminum shingles on the roof.
Brutus finally looks me dead in the eyes. “Because I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
The glass holding back my fire shatters into a million different shards. Anger melts the cold calculating part of my brain. I let the fury control me. I’ve gotten the information I came for.
Still, I’m a man of my word.
I take off my jacket and toss it aside. I don’t need the pistol in my pocket. It’s time to get my hands dirty.
I gesture towards the two men still tied up on their knees behind Brutus. “Kill those two,” I tell my guards, “then put down your weapons.”
They do as I say. The thunderous roars of the gunshots are still echoing through the warehouse when Brutus and I collide together in an explosion of unfettered violence.
“You know I hate it when you do that,” Juan sighs across from me. We’re in the back of my stretch limo, driving down the highway to my countryside compound as the sun rises behind us.
I shift the ice pack from my left hand to my right, covering the bruises on my swollen knuckles. “It was the only way I was going to stay sane. That bastard betrayed me...” He also said that he wasn’t afraid of me anymore. The physical gashes Brutus left on my skin hardly compare to how deep he cut me with those fucking words. The dead man sure knew how to get under my skin. My wounds will heal, but the shockwaves from that statement will haunt me for a long time.
Not being feared by your men is a death sentence in this business. Respect is only given to those who are strong, and strength is processed through the lens of fear. Who can take the most from me with a snap of his fingers? That’s who I’ll respect, that’s who I’ll follow, that’s who I’ll fear above everyone else.
My men all heard Brutus say his finals words. I can only hope the bloody image of his caved in skull will keep them from ever thinking the same thing.
It hardly matters to me that I got to kill that traitor with my bare hands. Sure, I needed the violent release—recently, I’ve been sporting far too many suits and not nearly enough bruises—but I’m not satisfied.
How many more of my men already think the same thing? We caught three, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more scheming behind my back. The paranoia constricts around my throat, but I claw it away. I can’t afford to get paranoid, but I can’t afford to be surrounded by untrustworthy swine, either.
“How are the articles looking?” I ask Juan, wanting to distract myself with something else. I’m staring out of the window but, in the corner of my eye, I can see the glow of his phone screen as he scrolls through his news feed.
“Good, so far,” Juan nods. “Even those Diaz fucks seem to have seen some of it. I got an email a few minutes ago that reads a lot like they’re ready to stop pussy-footing around. I think they see what our play is and they obviously think it might work. We could each make each other a lot of money.”
“Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch,” I growl. I’m in no mood to celebrate.
The more I think about the disrespect, the more it bugs me. It’s been years since I was challenged like that, and back then, I didn’t have my throne to stand on.
So, what’s really changed this time?
Maybe I should have kept Brutus alive a little longer...
“How are things going with the girl?” Juan asks, lifting his attention up from his phone with
a single eyebrow raise.
Catalina. The warmth of her kitchen and the fire of her spirit seem like the only heat I can grasp onto right now. The memory of how I left her before going out to deal with Brutus whirls around like a little ball of comfort behind my chest; it might be the only thing keeping me from freezing completely over with calculated focus. Even my anger feels cold and swollen, dipped under a glacial lake after my brawl with Brutus came to a violent conclusion.