Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 45635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Years of training as The Butcher had made this second nature. Silent footwork drilled into me since I was a boy, breath control that let me move without being heard, and the muscle memory of killing without a sound. These men never stood a chance.
The first one dropped before he could react, the blade going in clean and fast under his jaw. I let him fall and turned to the second before he understood what had happened, slamming him into the wall and cutting his throat deep enough that he wouldn’t make a sound before he slid down beside the other one.
I stepped over them and pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and something sour underneath it. It was the kind of smell that came from too many people and not enough control. Product sat out in the open, not even covered, and the men inside were talking instead of paying attention to anything that mattered. A couple of the men looked up when I walked in, confusion hitting before anything else, but they didn’t recognize me and they didn’t react fast enough to make a difference.
I crossed the space between us before the first one could speak, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and drove him into the table hard enough to break it. The blade followed through his ribs before he could draw breath to scream, and I was already moving when his body hit the floor.
The next one reached for a gun, but he was too slow. I stepped inside his reach, snapped his wrist before he could bring it up, and drove the blade into his stomach, pushing it up until his body folded in on itself.
I preferred a blade to a gun. It was more personal, more intimate.
The room didn’t stay quiet after that. Voices started rising and men moved without direction, grabbing at whatever they could find, but there was no structure behind it. They reacted. I didn’t. The next one came at me wide and sloppy, and I stepped inside, caught him at the throat, and put the blade under his ribs before he knew what was happening. Another tried to run, and I didn’t let him get far before dragging him back and cutting across his throat in one clean motion.
Blood covered my hands, dripping down my forearms and soaking through my shirt. I felt the hot, wet sprays land on my neck, and I resisted the urge to rub it in, marking my kills in a primal, savage way.
The room was turning into a slaughterhouse. Blood painted the walls in arterial sprays, pooled thick on the floor, and the copper stench mixed with piss and shit from men who died terrified. They had dared to reach for what was owned and controlled by the Drakovichs. Now they were paying in pieces.
It didn’t take long to take them all out. By the time the room went quiet again, the only one left standing was Alessio. He hadn’t moved, not at first. He stood near the back of the room, staring at what was left of his crew like he couldn’t process it. The confidence he’d been carrying before was gone, stripped clean off him, and what was left wasn’t control or anger. It was fear.
When he finally looked at me, it was worse up close. His eyes were unfocused, his breathing uneven, and the edge of whatever he’d taken still sat in his system. He tried to straighten like it would give him something back, but it didn’t land the way he thought it would. He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t let him finish.
I crossed the space between us and hit him hard enough to drop him, watching the way he struggled to get back up, slower than he should have been, weaker than he thought he was.
I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up just enough to keep him on his knees. He struggled, but there was nothing behind it. No control or strength. Just panic and whatever was left in his system.
“You think that name gives you something?” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. “You think having Rossi blood makes you untouchable?”
“I’m his son,” he choked out, blood already at the corner of his mouth. “Francesco’s blood runs through me. He threw me away like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter.” His voice got louder the longer he spoke, more desperate and unhinged. “I had to build something for myself. I had to take what was mine. That’s how this works.”
I didn’t respond.
“Bastards don’t get handed anything,” he went on, his words starting to slip together. “Not like you did. Or maybe not you. You take it. That’s what men in this world do, right?”