Steeling her spine, Shea approached the man, drawing her weapon. The heavy Glock wasn’t a silly female gun; it packed power and weight. A mean piece that meant business. The prisoner’s eyes lit up when he saw the gun; incorrectly assuming that death would come swift at her hands.
He was wrong.
While she played the part of loving mother and devoted employee on a daily basis; the truth was, she’d inherited more of her father’s traits than anyone knew. Perception was everything and Shea worked hard to conceal her devious desires. She’d morphed into a brutal gang leader with ease, wore the hat of a savage killer like her favourite summer dress and would happily drink the blood of her enemy like a delicious red wine.
“Do you know what my favourite saying is, Mr—?” She looked to Fabrizio for confirmation of the prisoner’s name.
“Don’t know, he wouldn’t give it up,” Fab told her.
“Ah, I see. Well, let’s just call you Mr. Smith, then. Is that okay with you?” Shea tossed him what she knew would be a charming grin as she circled him, considering her options. He didn’t answer, of course, just kept up his constant thrashing back and forth. Crimson blood dripped down his arms from where the chains were starting to turn his skin raw, but she was unconcerned. Soon, it wouldn’t be an issue.
“As I was saying, Mr. Smith, my favourite saying. It’s ‘an eye for an eye.’ It has such a poetic ring to it, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, nothing could be more true in my opinion. Why should one crime go unanswered? If you wrong someone, you’re automatically opening the door for retaliation. You might as well roll out the party balloons and welcome banners, if you know what I mean.”
“Damn fucking right! These assholes need to pay!” Tyler spat out, his own anger starting to get him worked up.
Snatching a long knife from a stainless steel table nearby, Shea approached her prisoner. Her emotions were threatening to boil over, rage becoming a living organism inside her. Cowards. Every single one of them was a coward; too afraid to face her one on one. Men and their damn egos, they’d rather fuck shit up with a ridiculous plan that only caused more harm than good.
Well, apparently, it was time the rest of the city learned the new leader of the West 9th gang was not to be tangled with. Not one for dramatics, she stood directly in front of their captive; prepared to do whatever it took to make sure the message was clear.
In a lightning move, she slashed the blade across the man’s midsection, gouging a deep gash that exposed his insides in a splay of blood and guts.
“Arrghhhhh!” he screamed around the gag, his body twitching and convulsing. Not showing any mercy, she flipped the blade up and gripped the handle in her fist, clutching it tight and plunging the steel forward, directly into his right eye.
The pitiful howl that escaped him turned her stomach, the horrid display more gory than she would have liked. Still, it had to be done. The business would suffer if she didn’t flex her muscles. She’d be damned if her father’s legacy went down that way.
“Fucking A,” Fab commented from behind her, his approval evident.
Satisfied, Shea let the knife clatter to the floor. “I’ll consider that a lesson learned,” she said to the man, stepping back as he lost control of his bladder. Disgusted, she stalked towards the door.
Glancing back, she surveyed the scene. Never would she have imagined such a display would be her doing. A twinge of guilt started to creep in, but she clamped down on it, shoving the useless emotion aside. Opening the door, she called out one final order over her shoulder.
“Find out who was responsible for this and send them his fucking head.”
Atticus knelt down next to the black body bag and lifted up a corner with his gloved hand. The gruesome sight that greeted him was shocking, but not unexpected. Glen Abbott was locked in a gang war; had been ever since Joe Benza had been gunned down several months earlier. Whoever had inherited his business was more ruthless than he had been, a thought that chilled him to the bone.
“Jesus,” he breathed. The man’s headless body was battered beyond recognition, he’d clearly endured massive torture before his head was taken. It was a death meant to send a message. What that message was, Atticus didn’t want to know. His main priority was to find the sick bastard responsible for such a heinous crime and put an end to their reign of terror.
“Hell of a mess, isn’t it,” Captain Ian Porter remarked as he joined him.
“That’s putting it mildly. What the hell happened?”
“As far as we can tell, it was some sort of retaliation hit. There were reports of a shootout on the southside of town yesterday afternoon. My guess is this unlucky bastard here was one of the men involved,” the captain explained.
“This is the last thing we need to be dealing with right now with everything else going on. We need to shut this down.” Atticus stood and tugged off his gloves. They were useless now that he’d contaminated them.
“Respectfully, Mr. Mayor, it’s not going to be that simple. Our units are still investigating to learn who the new leader of Benza’s crew is. So far, he’s remained a ghost. It’s damn frustrating,” Porter admitted. For the first time, Atticus noticed his colleague looked as exhausted as he felt. They were both powerful men in positions that demanded much of them on a regular basis, but add in a worldwide pandemic, and the growing list of stressors tripled.
Porter was one of the few that had accepted him as the new mayor without any hoops he had to jump through. He understood what it was to receive an elevated position so early in his career. The two had formed a mentorship/friendship that Atticus had come to value more than he thought he would.
“Alright, well keep me posted on any developments. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Will do.”
On the drive home from the crime scene, Atticus played over several scenarios in his mind. Either the victim had been killed by his own crew for some sort of betrayal, or he was taken out by the rival he’d tried to take advantage of. Either way, it was a mess he didn’t have time to deal with and neither did the city’s law enforcement resources. Tensions were at an all time high as groupings of citizens resisted the lockdown orders by causing disturbances. It was a time full of uncertainty and resentment. Jobs had been lost, lives had been lost, and on top of it all, they had to worry about innocent bystanders being caught in gun standoffs.
Arriving at home, he parked in his driveway and headed into his three storey brick home. He’d inherited it when his parents passed away, and took great pride in caring for it the way they would have. Settling on the couch in a pair of sweats and with a freshly chilled beer, he switched on the TV for some background noise while he spent scrolled through his phone. Downtime wasn’t a luxury he had as of late, but with the day he’d had, he made time for it.
His thoughts drifted to Shea, and he was soon shifting in his gray sweats to accommodate for the growing bulge between his legs. She had that effect on him; it was uncanny and somewhat amusing. He was hardly a horny teenager anymore, yet still felt like one around her.
Deciding she’d had enough time to consider his proposal of a date, he opened his text messages and sent her a quick message.
A: Shea, Atticus Ellison here. She hadn’t actually given him her number, but what was the use in being Mayor if he couldn’t pull a few strings. He had to pray she wasn’t offended at his forwardness and decide he was a creep.