CHAPTER 6
Present Day…
Caspian
Under my rule, London bled in silence. The underworld of the city wasn't ruled by the loudest but by the ones who understood when to strike; ME. I had learned that at a young age. I rose from the fires of boyhood, burned off innocence like a second skin.
Even now, as I stand in front of a dealer who had thought he could run away with my money, I know what I have to do. Many in my line of business would go with the option of mercy and second chances. But for me?
Mercy is a weakness. And weakness has no seat at my table.
The room is colder than it needs to be. I like it that way. Ive noticed people are way more vunerable when their teeth are chattering.
I have him restrained onto a chair-cuffed at his arms and legs.
"I gave you time," I say, "More than most."
His eyes are swollen, one nearly shut, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. "I-I was going to get it," he stammers. "I swear to you, Caspian-I just needed a few more days. I've got a daughter-"
I sigh.
They always mention the daughter. Or the mother. Or some phantom child they never spoke of until they are about to get their lives taken from them.
I walk over to the tray. My favorite blade is there, dull not usually suitable for slicing. I found early on into my training that dull blades cause the most pain because the cuts take longer; they take more time and energy though- not that I'm complaining. I pick it up and turn it in my hand.
His breath hitches. He opens his mouth, maybe to beg again, maybe to scream. But I don't give him the chance. The knife comes down onto his left pinky. Not clean and definitely not swift. It's not meant to be.
He howls. It echoes in the chamber, bouncing off the walls like music but I've heard the sound too many times to be moved by it.
The finger hits the tray with a wet slap.
"Even though you failed to pay me" I say, "I'm still collecting."
I light a torch.
The flame hums to life, blue and angry. I hold it over the raw wound, and his scream changes pitch, it's higher now, hoarse, and animalistic. The scent of burning flesh curls through the air. Most people would usually throw up by this point. I don't flinch.
I've smelled worse.
I repeat the process with every one of his fingers. Then I move on to his toes.
By the time I'm done with his toes, he's barely conscious. His eyes fluttering, breathe coming in shallow rasps. I almost hope he passes out. But he doesn't. Credit where it's due-he's a stubborn bastard.
I crouch beside him and lift his chin.
"You chose this," I whisper. "Don't forget that."
The final act is always the same. I bring the blade down one last time, through cartilage and spine. It doesn't go clean. It never does. But eventually, the head separates.
I stand, bloody and calm.
I send a message to my head of security valentine, to find out if he really had a daughter and get her moved to one of our group homes before sending a team to clean this up.
I walk out of the warehouse calmly and into my car.
Beyond my tinted windshield, my surroundings were drenched in the foggy glow of London's neon lights, streets wet with the drizzle of the night. I sat behind the wheel of my black Aston Martin, hands loose around a crystal tumbler of whiskey. The engine purred smoothly beneath me, but my mind was elsewhere-trapped in the past.
Genesis.
That name; had been physically branded across my back and mentally engraved in my brain, an obsession I had all too happily cultivated. I'd spent years gaining influence, holding the city's crime syndicates on strings at will, but she was the only thing I had actually wanted but could not get access to. And that made me furious.
I hadn't seen her in person for years, since we were children and I was dragged away on the day our mothers were buried by my father, right in front of her eyes, but I knew more about her than most people. I'd made sure of it.
Once I had officially gained most of the authority of my dad's business at 18, I had pried the details of Genesis' whereabouts from my father. I was relieved to find out she was safe, irritated to find out she was being raised in a convent. I had hoped I would not be getting a devout catholic in place of the Genesis I had been enchanted with.
I had taken up Computer skills myself after that. I didn't want to trust my men with matters that involved her directly. Didn't want to get second hand information about her. I would get everything myself.
The convent where she was raised's security system had been laughably easy to breach. Their equipment was so old, even the most basic high school hacker would be able to access their feed. I had infiltrated their systems with ease, creating my own lines of access into their cameras, their records, even their communications. I knew it all. Knew what she did, how she did it, and when she did it.
I had eyes on her rooms, on the corridors she walked through, on the chapel where she pretended to pray. And even on the bathroom where she shed herself naked to no one but the damp air.
Now that part had become a ritual now. Each day, before I descended into the chaos of work, I fell victim to the one thing that had become my sanctuary-watching her. Her mornings usually began with a hot shower, the steam mist kissing her body. My mornings began with my hand curled around my cock, eyes gazing at her, delighting in the understanding that she had no idea she was being watched.
She was mine. And despite the fired up personality I now knew she possessed; she would accept that in due time.
She messed around with other men. I knew that much from the convents external footage. But despite her manipulations, the truth is that they played with what was mine.
And their consequences would come soon enough.
Every last one of them.
My obsession with her has only intensified with time. I had worked decades in creating my empire, eliminating threats, establishing my place in the world. But this-Genesis-was the one that still lingered unresolved. And that was not acceptable.
It would soon be time to remind her who she belonged to.