Chase
Empty.
The sound of someone choking, gasping for air, filled the empty space in the large foyer.
My blurry eyes darted around in a frenzied attempt to find the source, only to realize a few seconds later.
It was me.
I was the one choking.
I was the one sobbing.
I was the one making that bloodcurdling noise as I fell to my knees, then very slowly, pulled out my gun and started shooting.
I took out the walls first. They were her favorite; she’d said she wanted something modern, chic.
“Make it impressive, Chase,” she’d said in that sultry temptress voice before sashaying off in her tall red heels.
So I’d done it.
I’d painted the entry walls a blood red.
I’d had no idea at the time that it would be my future, being dipped in that blood, her blood, the blood we shared.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
I fired at the wall, again and again, until a picture, our wedding picture, the only picture in the house, crashed to the floor, shattering glass across the hardwood.
And then I was angry again.
So fucking angry.
She’d wanted those floors, too.
God, was there anything in this house that was me?
For her. I’d done it all for her.
And…
She’d.
Betrayed.
Me.
I would have cut out my own heart and handed it to her on a silver platter while I watched the last two thumps give way.
I would have killed hundreds, thousands, millions.
And it would have still never been enough, would it?
Not enough.
Not me.
Not the house.
Not my money.
Not my love.
I moved to my feet and slowly walked over to the fallen picture, as glass crunched beneath my boots.
She was grinning up at me, even though our wedding day hadn’t been a happy day. And the sick part?
I was looking down at her the way I’d always looked at her, with barely restrained awe at her strength, her beauty, the way she took situations and molded them to her will.
I just never once imagined — I’d end up her victim.
Instead of a partner.
Slowly, I picked up the picture and then dropped it again onto the floor, only to lean over and slam my fist into it until I couldn’t see her face, until blood ran down my knuckles, until I felt slices of pain pierce my skin.
The doorbell buzzed.
I jerked my head toward the sound and slowly rose to my feet as it opened, and seven De Lange associates walked in, their eyes cold, their movements sluggish as if they knew no matter how slow, how fast, how strong, I would end them. All of them.
Which was a pity, since in all my rage I wanted to hunt each one of them down until they felt such intense pain that their ancestors cringed in their graves.
“Didn’t think you guys would show,” I said in a gravelly voice that sounded half-possessive, half-sad, like I’d stayed up all night alternating between crying and cursing her name to the fiery depths of hell.
Which, I was ashamed to admit, had happened more often than not these past few weeks.
“Didn’t think we had a choice,” one of them piped up. “When the Capo calls—”
I’d asked Tex for a favor, and since my wife’s betrayal, he was more than happy to give me whatever I wanted.
And I wanted them.
All to myself.
I nodded toward the living room.
They followed.
I even gave them my back, something I’d never done to an enemy before. I was way past the point of caring — because they knew just as much as I did, that since Mil betrayed the Families — we were untouchable.
Royalty.
We were gods among men.
And I would exercise my iron fist over their pathetic lives.
Adrenaline pulsed through my system as I took a seat on the white leather recliner, one of the only pieces of furniture that had been delivered before her untimely death.
I sat and placed my hands on the armrests as fresh blood slowly dripped down the front and onto the pristine floor.
The gun in my hand became almost a living extension of me as I pointed it at the men and placed my other palm over it, as though I was resting.
“Defend yourselves,” I barked.
One man stepped forward. “We can’t.”
I leaned back in the chair as I eyed each and every one of them. They had wives, families, friends who would miss them.
And for the first time in my life…
The guilt at what I was about to do.
Was nonexistent.
“A life for a life,” I whispered before opening fire on the first.
And drilling bullets, one by one, into each of their skulls until I had seven bodies littering my floor.
I dropped my gun and picked up my phone. “Seven dead. I need cleanup.”
Nixon sighed heavily on the other line. “Ours?”
“Theirs.” The word dripped with hate.
He hung up on a curse.
And ten minutes later, Dante was opening the door to my house and shouting orders at his associates.
“Is it my training that has you acting like a badass, or have you always been a badass?” I wondered aloud.
He rolled his eyes. “Looking like shit, as always. Have you even showered today?”
I leveled my gun on him.
He hung his head and pointed toward the kitchen. “Whiskey?”
“Where it’s been for the past week.” Where it’s always been.
“Two glasses?”
I stared down at the dead bodies, my vision blurring with hatred as the stench of blood filled the air. “Bring the bottle.”