Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Tie his hands down,” I order Rebel who smirks when he steps forward. My VP has an addiction to torture. I’ve watched him smile as he’s sliced a man’s mouth from ear to ear. There are things going on inside his head that worry me.
Once the bastard’s wrists are bound to the arms of the chair, I place my little device firmly over his hand.
“I-I-I can’t tell you anything,” he informs me, but I know it’s a lie. He can give me all the answers I need, but he won’t because he knows he’s goin’ ta die. So, whether he confesses now, or not, he’ll end up the same way.
The blade hangs waiting to be dropped. It looks like a mini version of a guillotine. But this one doesn’t decapitate; it chops off fingers one by one.
“Now,” I start. “Where’s Bragan?” My focus is on his watery gaze. The man is crying, he’s nearing his limit, and when he reaches it, I’ll push way past it if he doesn’t give me what I want. The only men I respect, I will die for, are my brothers. Anyone else means nothing to me. I’ve lived my life like that, with loyalty running through my veins. I won’t change. Nobody else will ever change me.
“I-I don’t know,” he sputters, and I tug on the string, which lets the guillotine drop, and his index finger falls to the ground in a wet splat—the concrete stained in red. “Fuck!”
“Like I said before, I’m not goin’ ta feck around,” I tell him. “Where is Bragan?”
He looks up at me, the plea in his expression evident. The bastard wants me to release him. He wants to ask me for mercy, but he knows that’s not possible. I don’t show anyone mercy, not when it comes to the fucker who killed Ma.
I’ve spent my life searching, and I won’t stop. All the soldiers who work for the mob will pay with their lives. It doesn’t matter if they give me the information or not. There’s no such thing as leniency when it comes to criminals.
I want to laugh. Some would call the Royal Bastards criminals. But we don’t go after innocent people. Those we do torture, those we do kill, they deserve it. As much as I hated Da for pushing me into this life, I vowed I wouldn’t turn out like he did. And I wouldn’t be six feet under before my fiftieth birthday. As I child, I looked at him and fear gripped me. I was scared I would become exactly like him.
I didn’t.
I’m better.
That’s what I tell myself. My father enjoyed putting the fear of God in people. He told me once I’d die if I didn’t force respect, but it’s not something you can force. It’s earned. And I vowed to live by my own rules. I may not have a whole lot of morals when it comes to violence, but I do have my limits. I have my conscience, which ensures I don’t live with guilt.
“Address,” I say as I tug on the wire, which drops the blade once more, and his middle finger plops onto the concrete. A wet spatter of crimson. Blood no longer scares me. Having it on my hands, being drenched in it, I bask in the evidence of what I’ve done. “If you don’t give it to me, I’ll gladly cut you to pieces, and then, while you’re still alive and breathing, I’ll take acid to yer flesh,” I tell him without a hint of humour. What I enjoy is making bad men pay. I may not be a feckin’ angel, but by God, I’m a man with integrity.
“M-M-M-McCarthy S-S-Street,” he chokes out, pain creasing his features. “The house is big enough you wouldn’t miss it.” His words are more confident now. He looks up at me as if I’m a saviour. I’m not. I’m the fuckin’ reaper. “Please, Cathal,” Moore begs. He’s worked for Bragan for a number of years. One of our informants brought his name to us. He was easy enough to find. Perhaps he was confident his connection to the Irish mob would keep him safe. It won’t.
I pull on all the remaining strings, and the rest of his fingers fall free from his hand. The blood-curdling scream echoes in the empty warehouse as I step back and survey my work. He’s lost all his fingers on his left hand. His right hand is broken.
He looks over at me, and I note that the pain is takin’ it’s toll on him. But I can’t allow him to live. It’s not part of the plan. None of Bragan’s men will live. The whole feckin’ mob will go down, and it’ll be by my hand.
“When you get to hell,” I tell him then, “make sure you keep space for Bragan, because he’ll be joinin’ you soon.”