Page 2 of Cain

“We’ve found him.”

My eyes land persistently on his. “Is he alive?”

“Of course. Those were the orders,” he declares, his voice loud yet hoarse, indicating respect toward me. I like that. I always have.

His bulked body is stiff, and his prominent jawline twitches. The veins on his temples pulsate, and his face is red, evidence that he has already done half of my work by beating that bastard up himself, just to warm him up.

Good boy.

“Good.”

Landon nods, lowers his brown eyes, turns his back, and walks away.

I return to the bedroom and put on my clothes. I should choose something simple and disposable, as things will become messy, but this is a special occasion. This piece of shit will have the honor of being tortured by a well-dressed man for once. I put on one of my expensive Hugo Boss white shirts and black slacks. After all, this meeting has to look professional. I carefully roll up my sleeves to my elbows and light up a smoke. I take a few drags and put it out in the glass ashtray on the ebony nightstand.

It’s time.

Somewhere in the basement of my mansion, there’s a small room that I designed and decorated specifically for men like this one. My playroom. Soundproof walls and … well, that’s the only thing I need. Just to be free to express myself. In this room, there’s only a chair that hosts those unlucky enough to find themselves there. Above, the bulb swings slightly, its blinding light making the space feel less like a room and more like a chamber.

I enter the room. Everything is in its place. The boys have already hung the plastic sheeting around him to avoid the mess that follows.

I give him a look. He appears to be exhausted behind that garment that muffles his hole. I guess Landon vented a little bit of his anger to him, indeed. His cheekbones and eyebrows are already torn and bloody. The room already reeks of blood, sweat, tears, and despair.

His despair.

“What an honor to have you in my house,” I quip, lighting up one more smoke.

He doesn’t try to speak or talk me into letting him go. He knows there’s no option for that.

“Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell …” I shake my head. “I’m a little disappointed with you. It’s like you’ve accepted your fate.” I lean in. “Is that true?”

His shoulders jolt with each breath, his whole body trembling in terror. He almost creates music as his chest clinks against the chains binding him.

His eyes refuse to move from the door ahead of him, and I’m sure he’s playing a million and one escape scenarios in his mind. It’s okay. I let him have hope. Hope is what keeps us sane. What keeps us going.

Unless you’ve given up and are ready for the chaos to erupt. Like me.

“Usually, I have Landon dealing with scumbags like you.” I prowl around him. “But you, my friend …” My hand lands on his shoulder. “You are special. See, Maxwell … you have balls.”

I take a drag of my smoke. “Trying to steal what’s mine is a risky deed that no sane man would dare todo.” I exhale. “Not to mention the betrayal.” I punch him. His breathing accelerates to the fullest. He lets out a sound—weak, pathetic. It feeds the hollow in me like gasoline, and I make sure he knows this is the part I enjoy. “You betrayed me for a man who won’t even bother to collect your corpse?” He shakes. “Don’t worry, though. I didn’t bring you here to torture you. Much. I brought you here for the pleasure of putting a bullet between your eyes.”

I take a few steps away and halt in the middle of the room, right in front of him. My men are voiceless. Almost breathless. Pure silence envelops the room. The only thing I can hear is Maxwell’s frantic breaths behind the fabric and the cigarette paper burning.

“It’s just a pity that you did all this in vain.” I look at him, increasing his shivers. “How does it feel, Maxwell?How does it feel to know that your miserable life has come to an end?”

Tears run down his cheeks, and his pathetic face turns red. He doesn’t try to talk. He simply … waits for his demise.

I lower myself before him and raise my eyes to meet his. “You wanted to know which ships I stored the guns in, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his desperation soaking into the fabric.

“Too bad the information was fake. You took the bait like the desperate, pathetic rat you are. And now, you’ve got nothing but your stupidity to show for it. No payout. No escape.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Manson.” He shudders.

I stand up, drive my smoke to my lips, and let it dangle as I roll my shirt’s sleeves higher. “You thought you were clever. But the thing about rats, Max—they never see the trap until it snaps.”

Landon hands me his gun.