“Have you anything to say for yourself?” I ask, even though there’s no way he’ll answer. “I’ll admit, I’ve no idea why Alistair asked me to take care of you. It’s been a while since he had me do any eliminations, so he must be planning something grand.”
Kevin groans, and I’m sure he’d be in tears if not for the tape.
Hooking my ankle behind one of the chair legs, I lean in, gripping Kevin’s shoulder in one hand. The rod glows as I wave it between us, tsking at the fear frozen on his tired face.
“Come on, mate. Throw me a bone here.” The gold cross around his neck catches my eye. “You’re Catholic, yes? So you believe confession absolves you of your sins, or some other bloody nonsense. Well, now’s your chance. Tell me what you’ve done, and maybe God will have mercy on your soul.”
This time, he doesn’t even try to say anything. Sighing, I swipe the poker across his jaw, reveling in the absolute terror radiating off him.
The head of the iron is shaped like a W and engraved with intricately woven vines and roses. It’s an heirloom passed down from my grandfather to my father, and then to me—though I suspect I’m the first to use it in this manner.
Then again, my father’s lack of creativity in this line of work is likely what got him killed in the first place. If he’d stuck to his hidden talents and not tried to align himself with Primrose Realty, perhaps he’d still be alive.
I glance at the silver Rolex on my wrist and frown when I realize what time it is. Alistair will have an aneurysm if I show up late, so I’d better make this quick.
Pity.
Prolonging the inevitable really is the best part of my job.
Kevin trembles in my grasp, and satisfaction funnels through my nerve endings, lighting me up like the night sky.
“I thought for sure when my brother had his cock up your arse, it meant good things for you. Though, I suppose he has his methods of torture...”
Biting back a smile, I push the W-shaped end of the branding iron against his cheek, letting him thrash and scream as much as he can. The smell of burnt flesh reaches my nostrils, and I inhale deeply, allowing myself a breath to revel in the depravity.
The Wolfe family insignia looks delightful etched into his face, and once I’m content with the severity of its presence, I move back and fit the letter between his lips.
“... and I have mine,” I finish, one flick of my wrist shoving the iron into his mouth. He has no teeth left to block the entry, so the end reaches the back of his throat on the first try.
He jerks some as I hold him in place, but the struggle dies off quickly as his energy evaporates. When he goes limp, I punch my arm forward more forcefully, until the end of the iron pops out the back of his neck at an awkward angle.
Blood gushes from his lips and the exit wound, spilling onto the floor. Some of it splatters onto my leather shoes, and I sigh as I bend down, wiping it away with the handkerchief in my breast pocket.
Refolding the tissue, I stuff it into my leather jacket and clean up, wrapping Kevin’s body in a tarp and placing him temporarily in the deep freeze on my back deck.
Later, when I arrive at my pub, The Flaming Chariot, my brother sits in a booth in the very back, watching patrons writhe around the dance floor with a blank expression on his face.
Smoke from a Cuban swirls up around him, tangling with his neatly coiffed jet-black hair, and the navy trousers and suspenders he wears make it clear this isn’t an establishment he frequents often.
Icy blue eyes meet mine as I slide in across from him. A moment after I’m seated, a redheaded waitress named Amber puts a pint in front of me, refills Alistair’s water, and then scurries off.
“Surprised you wanted to meet here,” I say, raising my voice slightly so it’s audible over the music.
He takes a drink, balancing his cigar against the glass. “Yes, well. Figured it might be easier to come to you. No one bats an eye at the mayor visiting a seedy pub if they think he’s just being diligent.”
“But they’d question my presence at the mayor’s house, I suppose.”
“Precisely.” Placing his glass down, he sucks on the end of his cigar, inhaling deep. On the exhale, he leans forward. “And what of our dear friend, Kevin?”
“Taken care of.” I sip my beer. “Though I hope you have a better reason for wanting him gone than the possibility of someone finding out about your… trysts.”
Alistair chuckles. “My sexual preferences are no secret at this point, little brother. That I enjoy the company of a man as much as a woman is hardly the revelation you’d think.”
“The press would spin it, regardless.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. The press just has very little influence on my decisions, is all.”
Tapping the edge of the wooden table, I blow out a breath and scan the room quickly. Booths line three of the four walls, with the bar front finishing the square. In the middle sits the dance floor, though on the days we open early, it’s just extra room for single tables.
Nothing spectacular to look at, but it’s mine.
Spend a little time in jail with nothing to your name, and the concept of property becomes incomparable.
“Surely you haven’t come here to discuss your sex life,” I say, finishing off my drink.
Slowly, he reaches into his suit and pulls out a black card.
You’re Invited to Primrose Manor is in gold, embossed lettering at the top, and he places it flat on the table.
My stomach flips, my gut twisting as I think about the last time I set foot in that house twelve years ago.
Silence stretches thin between us, and I hook my ankle over the opposite knee, waiting for him to continue. “You’re not planning on going to that, are you?”
He frowns, not moving his gaze from the card. “For the first time since they bought their estate, Tom Primrose is opening it up to the public. I’d say every major dignitary and socialite from here to Boston will be in attendance, desperate just to see inside his home.”
I don’t respond.
“It would be untoward of me not to attend. I hear the daughter is looking for a partner.” He sets the card down, something haunted lining his irises. I uncross my legs, not particularly interested in meeting his ghosts.
I have plenty of my own.
An image of Tom Primrose’s brunette puppet pops in my head, though it’s been ages since I paid attention to her in a magazine or elsewhere.
Nodding, I lift a shoulder in acknowledgment. “Better you than me.”
A strange feeling settles in my gut when Alistair doesn’t say anything more. I look down at the placard, watching as he spins it around with his index finger.
Slowly, my gaze lifts to his. He catches it and holds fast.
My nostrils flare. “No.”
His fingers drum on the table. “I wasn’t asking, Jonas.”
Then again, he rarely does. Alistair grew up traveling the world with his Scottish mum and a silver spoon lodged up his arse, and no one ever taught him manners. He takes without remorse, which I’d admire more if it wasn’t constantly being used against me.
Aplana Island, though relatively small in permanent population, has always had a very heavy and extensive presence of crime. It’s not specifically organized, but there are competing branches of underground societies that operate on the south side or in the less habitable, underdeveloped parts.