Page 30 of Twisted Vows

The ring leader, who’s now Prison Tats in my mind, just watches, calculating, while Acne Kid’s grip tightens on his crowbar.

Gold Chain saunters forward first, the bat swinging lazily at his side. “You’re going to be more amenable to that after we break some of your bones.”

I’ve been in enough fights with real bloodshed to identify greenhorns at a glance. What they lack in ability and experience, they try to make up for with false bravado and reckless enthusiasm.

I catch the eagerness in Gold Chain’s eyes as he rushes me. In a rookie mistake, he telegraphs the swing. I sidestep, and the wood whistles past my ribs.

Marco explodes forward, driving his fist into Gold Chain’s side. The sickening crunch of ribs cracking reverberates through the space. Gold Chain opens his mouth in a silent gasp. The bat clatters to the concrete. He doubles over, clutching his side while his face drains of color.

Butterfly Knife rushes me with a blade out, his eyes wild with adrenaline. I wait long enough for him to commit to the lunge, the blade aimed at my gut, his weight already past the point of recovery.

At the last second, I slip inside his guard, my Swiss Army knife already in my hand. Muscle memory takes over. I drive the weapon up beneath his ribs, angling away from anything vital, digging in just enough to stop him.

He jerks. His eyes widen with shock as hot, slick blood wells over my knuckles. The smell of copper and salt mingles with the warehouse’s rot and dust.

“You…” He staggers back, his own blade falling from his fingers. “You stabbed me.”

Movement flashes to my left, too fast to dodge. Scarred Knuckles launches himself at me, armed with only rage and muscle. His fist connects with my jaw before I can fully turn, snapping my head sideways. Stars burst behind my eyes. The bitter, iron-like tang of blood fills my mouth.

He swings again, grinning now, giddy from having landed a blow.

I duck, and his fist sails over my head. He comes in for a third strike. Thinks he can take me.

I don’t let him. My elbow snaps up, full force, and catches him square in the nose, triggering the wet, terrible crunch of cartilage. Blood sprays across his face, my shirt, the floor. He roars—more animal than human—and stumbles backward. His hands fly to his face as he tries to hold the pieces together. Through his fingers, I glimpse the damage.

A flattened nose bent at the wrong angle and blood streaming between his knuckles.

He drops to his knees, shrieking and moaning.

Across the warehouse, Prison Tats lurches toward the duffel.

Marco’s already on him. His boot catches the guy in the knee. The joint buckles with a pop, and Prison Tats crumples with a shout. Marco doesn’t stop. His fist hammers down—once, twice—with precise strikes to the temple. Prison Tats slumps, unconscious before he hits the ground.

Acne Kid freezes, the crowbar trembling in his hands. His eyes dart between us and the exit.

“Drop it,” I say.

He does. The metal clangs against concrete. He raises his hands and backs toward the wall. “I…I don’t want trouble, man. I was just…”

“Sit.”

He slides down the wall, his ass hitting the floor, his hands still raised. All that stupid bravado replaced by terror. When will they ever learn that their fears and worries won’t make me any more merciful?

The first rule Dante taught me before letting me pick up a blade is that men who live this life have to die by the sword. No matter how long it takes, it’ll happen one day. You always have to assume it’s today.

It’s why I’ve made sure I have nothing to lose. Sophia’s face suddenly flickers in my mind. Her fire. Her softness. Did she lie? Did she feed me false crumbs to buy time? The thought fuels the next blow as I return my attention to Gold Chain, who’s still wheezing on the ground. My boot finds his shoulder and flips him onto his back. My knuckles split against his jaw, again and again as I let my rage spill over.

When the dust settles, Marco drags Gold Chain to a chair. His hands work quickly, the duct tape screeching as he unrolls it. Soon, the man’s wrists are tightly bound to the chair arms. Marco does the same with Prison Tats, who’s groaning and starting to come around.

Butterfly Knife and Scarred Knuckles writhe on the floor. They’re not leaving anytime soon.

The kid stays against the wall, crying quietly.

I lurch forward, knife still in hand. Blood drips from the blade, pooling on the concrete.

Gold Chain eyes my every motion, his irises glassy as more blood dribbles from his nose and stains his fake gold chains.

Prison Tats is awake now, blinking and trying to focus. His eyes land on my knife, then go to Marco’s red-stained fists. He pales as he soaks it all in.