Page 20 of Carnal Wagers

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Liam cut in. “We’re all friendly here. No need for any of that. Put the gun down.”

The boy dragged me forward by my shirt, bunching it up in his fist, the muzzle pressed to my chin. My brother yelled colorfully in the background. My men drew their weapons, but I was held still, captivated. On the cold metal against my skin. The twinge of danger pulsing through my body. The slight shake in the boy-gangster’s hand. The way his pupils widened and sweat pebbled his forehead. I liked it. I liked it all, and I wanted more.

“What you smiling at, cucho?”

Was I? Guess I was, and it was all teeth. My blood roared in my ears. My limbs hummed with an ache to act. The room sharpened in clarity and shrunk the dullness I lived in.

I pocketed my knife and slipped my hand into my front pocket. My fingers wormed into my brass knuckles.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Old enough to fuck up your old ass.”

“So, old enough to know better.”

“What the fu—”

I punched him straight in the face. Metal and knuckles collapsed his nose with one solid crunch. Probably cracked his cheek too. His gun clattered to the floor without firing an attempted shot. Too bad. There was no gumption in this one.

Blood gushed between his fingers, but when he widened them to spew more bullshit, I slammed my fist into his gut. He crumpled to the ground, curled in on himself, and coughed.

“If it wasn’t clear, I’ve had enough of your lip.”

“Jorge’s going to fuck you up.”

There was no Jorge in the top echelons of the Urabá cartel, so best guess, our lurker was just a glorified babysitter who didn’t care all that much about his charge.

I gazed into the shadows. “That right, Jorge?”

“He’s Señor Sosa’s twelfth nephew,” the mystery man said in that same bored tone I knew by heart.

Translation: It was best if I didn’t kill him, but Joaquin Sosa, head of the Urabá cartel, wouldn’t be too broken up if the boy came back a little worse for wear.

That was good enough for me.

“Looks like you overstepped, lad.” I kicked the little shite in the gut.

He spat ichor between red-spattered teeth. “I’ll kill you. You’re dead, man.”

“Oh?” I crouched before him and trailed my finger through the blood dripping down his nose. “How about I do it for you?”

Confusion bulged his bruised eyes, and my lips tugged uncomfortably at my cheeks. He flinched when I picked up his revolver and emptied the cylinder of every bullet except one. They clattered to the ground, the pings echoing in the dead space around us.

“W-what are you doing, man?”

“Cillian,” Liam warned behind me.

I spun the cylinder, clicked it back in place, and pressed the muzzle to my head. For the first time in days, I felt alive. Free. The world was my oyster.

“We’re going to play a game. If I don’t blow a hole through my brains, I get to shoot you.”

“What? No, I don’t—”

I pulled the trigger. The gun clicked, and with it, my high plummeted. The sparks racing through my body stopped. The pleasure vanished, sending me back to bland normalcy. It was all short-lived, like everything else. I turned the gun on the cartel falcon, or perhaps sicario-in-training. Again, the trigger clicked, no bullet.

“For feck’s sake, Cillian, what’re you doing?”

“Jesus, man, estás loco.” Sosa’s nephew trembled, the chip on his shoulder patched up.