Vincent's POV —
I was in the basement of one of my warehouses with a guest who had thought crossing me was a clever idea. We had been trading words for a few minutes, and his voice was already grating on my nerves.
"You know, you talk too damn much for someone who hasn't 't given me a single word I actually want to hear," I said, my tone deceptively patient. But there was nothing patient about me.
"F..- Fuck you," he spat, his bloodied lips curling into a sneer.
My men had clearly given him a proper invitation—he was already a mess, bruised and bleeding.
I leaned closer, smirking. "Oh, I'll definitely fuck someone… but you wouldn't be alive to witness or hear about it."
He kept throwing insults, each one more colorful than the last, and at that point, my patience finally snapped. I opened the small metal box on the table beside me...a little collection of tools reserved for moments exactly like that.
His eyes widened when I took out a pair of steel pliers, sharp-edged and rusted from too much use. They weren't meant for construction. They were meant to take things apart...finger by finger, joint by joint.
The flicker of fear in his eyes was almost better than the truth I was after. Almost.
"This shouldn't surprise you," I murmured, turning the pliers slowly so he saw every angle. "You've been in my circle long enough to know what happens when someone betrays me. And yet…" I crouched in front of him and gripped his jaw. "You chose to sell me out to one of my rivals. Because of you, I lost two of my men."
I squeezed his jaw until he winced. "You could tell me who you were working for, and I'd make your death quick. Or you could stay stubborn, and I'd take my time—finger by finger. And when I am done with your hands…" I let the pliers click for emphasis, "…I'll cut your dick off and leave you here overnight. Tomorrow, maybe you'd be more cooperative."
He knew I wasn't bluffing. Everyone who crossed me knew I kept my word...especially when it was ugly. I had too many enemies, but only a few had the audacity to infiltrate my circle. I needed one name. A very specific name.
Still, he didn't budge. If anything, there was a flicker of defiance in his bloodshot eyes that almost amused me. So he wanted to be tortured. Fine by me.
I gripped his right hand in my glove, inspecting it like a specimen I was ready to dissect.
He chuckled hoarsely, voice raw. "Bet you'd be a real artist in another life. Too bad all you know what to paint with is blood."
My pliers clamped down on his pinky. He groaned, writhing in the chair, sweat dripping down his temple. I moved torturously slow, savoring every twitch of pain. Then I snapped the second finger, his curses growing louder—words slurred with agony.
It wasn't until I reached the fourth finger that his resolve cracked. His chest heaved, spit mixing with blood as he choked out words between clenched teeth and ragged gasps.
"F-Fuck ...you… y-you want a name?!" His voice broke as I tightened the pressure on his knuckle. "It was..- It was R- " he wheezed through the pain, "…Ronan! Ronan sent me! He… he knew how to find you."
His head fell back, trembling in the chair, every word ripped out of him like a confession carved in blood.
"See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?" I muttered, flexing my hand as I looked at my blood-soaked gloves. "Shame you made me ruin my gloves."
He managed to spit one last curse—something about them coming for me. Empty threats. I had heard the same song from dying men who thought they mattered. I didn't care.
I reached for the gun on the table, leveled it at his face, and locked onto his wild, hateful eyes. For a moment, the room went still. Only his ragged breathing filling the space. Then I pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through his skull, knocking him backward, chair and all. He hit the ground hard, body twitching as life drained out of him. I watched his final breaths fade, expressionless. Another loose end tied up. Another stain on my soul.
This was life in the mafia—blood and betrayal. I had lived in that chaos since I was seventeen. It was dirty, merciless… but damn if it wasn't thrilling. My hands were drenched in blood, yet I had never once regretted the choices that carved me into the person I was.
But even monsters carried ghosts. Mine was the death of my parents. Years had passed, yet the image of their bodies still haunted me. My father's murder had left me with no choice but to rise, to take his place as Alpha. And although I'd clawed my way into power, I hadn't forgotten the man behind their deaths. I couldn't reach him directly—not yet. But his daughter… she was within my reach.
Our marriage would serve many purposes. Revenge. Control. And it would silence the council's endless demands about my bachelorhood.
The only thing I knew about her was her name. The rest… well, I didn't care.
I stripped off the ruined gloves, slid my watch back onto my wrist, and stepped out of the basement. My men straightened the moment they saw me.
"Jarell," I said, my voice flat, "clean up that mess."
Without another glance back, I headed toward my car. The city swallowed us as we drove off, but my thoughts weren't on the night.
They drifted back to the girl I had crossed paths with only hours earlier.
I knew I wouldn't find her if I returned to the club. Too many hours had passed, and girls like her… they didn't linger. She had the look of someone sheltered, protected. Untouched by dirt like me.
It was better not to ruin her.
●●●●●●●●●●●