Page 70 of Malice

I pull the knife free, the steel biting into the shadowed light, reflecting a face that’s all angles and grim determination. Blood stains the gauze on my knuckles, a reminder of who I am in moments like this, something feral, something that doesn’t fit in the daylight.

Matthew hovers behind me, a heated shadow. His grip on my shoulder is firm, a living pulse that says he’s ready to bring hell down if I say the word.

I push the door open.

Inside, the room’s a sorry sight. Peeling wallpaper clinging to the walls like a bad memory. A round table hogs the center, cards and beer bottles scattered like casualties of a shitty party. Four guys sit there, eyes finding us like moths to a flame.

Time stretches thin, and I see every damn thing. Recognition crawling over their faces, the gears turning from confusion to a sudden, gut-punch terror. The wiry one closest to me goes for his belt, but he barely makes it halfway.

Four guys sit there, oblivious and dumb as shit, just how I want them. Nearest one’s a hefty son of a bitch with a shiny dome and a silver tooth that catches the light. He looks up, eyes going wide, mouth hanging open like he’s about to play the hero. Too fucking late.

I’m on him before he can blink. My hand locks around his throat, slamming him back into his chair with a thud. The chair legs screech across the sticky floor, the sound slicing through the shitty music. His buddies scramble, hands diving for waistbands, chairs tipping, bottles crashing.

“Don’t,” I snarl, my voice spreading through the room like goddamn wildfire.

Matthew’s already in motion, his gun steady and aimed at the biggest threat, some bastard with prison ink crawling up his neck. The guy freezes, hands skyward, eyes glued to Matthew’s piece.

The other two are trapped, caught like rats between Matthew’s gun and the wall. One of them is young—early twenties, with that deer-in-the-headlights look—and throws his hands up so fast he might dislocate something.

“Who the f—” Silver Tooth starts, but I tighten my grip, cutting off whatever horseshit he was about to spew.

“You are working for Marcus Caldwell,” I state, not even a hint of a question in my tone.

Silver Tooth’s eyes dart to his boys, then back to me. His expression shifts from fear, realization, to the slow, creeping understanding this isn’t no random bar brawl.

“We don’t want any trouble,” stammers the young one, voice cracking like a cheap beer bottle. “We’re just⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Matthew’s voice is dead, flat. The kid’s mouth snaps shut in terrified obedience.

I lean in close to Silver Tooth, close enough to taste the stench of whiskey on his breath, smoke clinging to him like a bad habit. “You’re going to deliver a message for me,” I whisper, my voice soft, dangerous. “To Marcus Caldwell.”

Silver Tooth tries to speak, but I’ve got him clamped tight. I loosen my grip just enough for him to gasp.

“What—what message?” he croaks.

“The Devil Souls know his name.” Each word lands like a hammer blow, sealing his fate. “We know about the contract. We know about the safe house. We know about The Rusty Nail.” I crank my grip tighter, watching his face turn the color of a bruised plum. “And we’re coming for him. Every man between us and him is already a dead man walking, they just don’t know it.”

His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his skull. I let him go, and he folds, coughing like a sick dog, clutching his throat.

“Tell him Carter Kingston sends his regards,” I add, and my name detonates in the room like a damn grenade.

Prison Ink flinches. The young one lets out a squeak, half shock, half piss-yourself terror, and the quiet guy goes stone still.

“You’re—” Silver Tooth wheezes, rubbing his neck. “You’re the fighter. The one from⁠—”

“Tell him,” I interrupt, my voice a blade meant to cut. “Tell him he made one fatal mistake. He came for what’s mine.” I lean down again, words meant for Silver Tooth alone. “And tell him I’m going to make him understand exactly what that costs.”

I stand, taking in the room. Four guys, all staring like I’m some kind of nightmare come to life. Not quite human, not just a threat, but something worse.

Matthew doesn’t flinch. His gun steady as ever, eyes sweeping over them with the calmness of someone who’s been to hell and back. “Keys. Phone. On the table. Now.”

They obey with the speed of the damned, tossing keys and phones onto the scarred wood like tributes to some angry god.

“Back door,” Matthew says, nodding toward the rear exit. “Out the way we came. Greyson’s crew got eyes on the front.”

I nod, eyes locked with Silver Tooth’s. He’s looking at me with something almost like respect, the realization creeping in that he’s been bested in every fucking way.

“Remember,” I say, letting the words hang heavy. “Every damned word. Caldwell hears it all.”