Page 53 of Chaos & Carnage
Giving her a crooked grin, I crack my knuckles. “Now things get bloody.”
Chapter 19
The metallic taste in the air stings my nostrils, the heady smell of blood like gasoline to the adrenaline roaring through my veins. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it; certainly it’s been at least a few hours. If I were to step outside, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the sun cresting the horizon, staining the sky a similar color to the red tributaries coursing toward the drain.
Brent has proven to be one hard nut to crack. All of my guys have had a go at inflicting pain, as demonstrated by the guy’s mangled fingers, bloody pulp of a face, and shredded chest. The entire time, I’ve stood and watched, noting the various techniques they’ve used and how they resemble each of them. Cain is all about brute force—breaking bones and splitting skin. Dante knows precisely where to target to inflict maximum pain without actually killing the guy. Enzo is all about the psychological torture, and Oliver fucks with his head by offering hope.
I’ve watched all of it with rapt fascination. Obviously, I knew all of my men were ruthless in their own way—even sweet Oliver—but until now, all of their violence has been reactive. The response to a perceived or actual threat.
However, this… this is calculated, precise, deliberate, and I find it way more alluring than I really should. No sane person would be so chill—and just a teeny-weeny bit turned on—while such violence played out in front of them, but then, I never claimed to be sane. I may not be as intimately connected to my apathetic side since finding each of my guys, but I’m still not—nor will I ever be—society’s definition ofnormal.
I’m perfectly me. Still very much damaged and flawed, but I’m at peace with myself in a way I’ve never experienced before. Life forced me to create different personas to deal with the various factions of my life.
There was Sawyer, the true me, the young woman starved of attention from the one person who should have given it unconditionally and was forced to grow up well before her time in order to protect her little brother.
Then there was Red, the version of myself I had to become in order to survive on the streets, to step half-naked onto a stage and ignore catcalls and whistles while I danced around a pole.
And finally, there was the Reaper. Born from a desperate need to feel like I had some control, like I wasn’t at the mercy of arrogant men who were stronger and more powerful than myself. The little girl inside of me crying out for help forged the Reaper to fight against the injustice of it all, of this life I was catapulted into without any say.
Sawyer.
Red.
The Reaper.
Three very different people, all of them me.
Honestly, I was probably one bad day away from a dissociative break. One person can only take so much, regardless of the number of personas she develops in order to get by.
However, since finding each of my guys and building this connection between us, it’s like the different parts of my soul have started to blend together. I no longer feel like three different people, but as though the best parts of each of those personas have been wrapped together to form a completeme.
I’m a little bit of all three of them. I have retained Sawyer’s compassion, Red’s confidence, and the Reaper’s ability to remain calm and collected in the face of violent and stressful situations. Now, on days like today, I feel closer to the Reaper than Sawyer, but I don’t wholly lose myself as I would have in the past.
For the first time in my life, I feel whole. Complete. Entirely myself.
Which is why I can both simultaneously wince at the sound of Dante’s fist landing a solid punch in the guy’s gutandbe turned on by the brutality of his violence, at Enzo’s cruel, savage grin, at Cain’s bloody knuckles, and at Oliver’s silent tremble of fury.
My ruthless Rejects.
My merciless mafia men.
My bloodthirsty gangsters.
My ferocious family.
“This whole stoic silence thing isn’t impressing anyone,” Enzo states, his voice cold and cruel, nothing like the teasing tone I’m used to hearing. “It’s certainly not going to gain you any points. Giovanni isn’t going to reward you for your silence, and we sure as fuck aren’t.” He kneels down in front of the man, bringing them face-to-face, although I doubt he’s anything more than a blurry blob through the man’s swollen eyes. “You’re just a pawn to him. Disposable. Replaceable. While I can admire your loyalty, it’s wrongly placed.” With a tilt of his head, he asks, “Why give that to a man who will never offer you his?”
The man doesn’t answer, but Enzo remains crouched in front of him. “Is it about money? Power? ‘Cause none of that will do you any good where you’re going. Don’t you at least want to die knowing you’ve done the right thing?”
One heaving inhale, two, before the man spits in Enzo’s face. The action is followed by a deathly silence, my gaze bouncing back and forth between the two of them. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one waiting with bated breath to see how Enzo will react.
One second, Enzo is squatting in front of the man, radiating fury, and in the blink of an eye, he’s grabbing him by the throat and squeezing until his eyes bulge and his face turns a dark shade of purple. No one moves to intervene as gasps and gurgles fill the room. Only when his eyes start to roll back in his head, his body convulsing with the lack of oxygen, do I step forward.
“Enzo,” I murmur, reaching out to press my hand against his back.
He stiffens, before I feel the muscles beneath my hand relax, his grip loosening enough that the sniveling asshole in the chair can suck in enough air to keep himself alive—for now.
“Take a break.” Dante’s words are a harsh order brokering no argument. And still, Enzo quarrels with him, his hand remaining clamped around our captive’s throat.