Page 11 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

KNOX

I stomp through the warehouse entrance, my mood fouled beyond repair.

The moment with Bianca at the gallery keeps replaying in my head—how close I’d been to truly breaking through that wall she’s built around herself.

Then Elliot walks in, and to add insult to injury, Vane wouldn’t stop blowing up my cellphone.

“About time you showed up,” Vane calls out, leaning against a stack of crates. His green eyes glitter with amusement. “You must have been busy with an art lesson.”

“Fuck off.” I slam my keys down on a metal table. “What was so goddamn important that you couldn’t handle it?”

“Touchy, touchy.” Vane pushes off from the crates, falling into step beside me. “Did Knox get cockblocked by work? Such a tragedy.”

I shoot him a glare. “I was making progress until your incessant calls.”

“Progress?” Vane snorts. “You’ve been chasing that artist for weeks. At what point do you admit she’s not interested in playing with the big bad wolf?”

“She’s interested.” The memory of Bianca’s body responding to mine makes me certain. “She just doesn’t want to be.”

“That’s called ‘not interested,’ brother.”

We round the corner toward the back storage rooms, our footsteps echoing off the concrete.

“You should’ve seen her face when I had to take that call.” I clench my jaw, remembering the look on Bianca’s face. “Pretty sure she heard every word.”

“Impressive dirty talk. I bet that really got her motor running.”

“She was already running hot before the interruption.”

Vane laughs, pushing open the metal door to our improvised holding room. “Well, here’s the reason for your blue balls.”

A man sits zip-tied to a chair in the center of the room, blood caking his split lip. Mikey Rodriguez—one of our street-level distributors from the south side. His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Mr. Blackwood, please, there’s been a misunderstanding?—”

“Save it,” I cut him off, circling the chair. “The books don’t lie, Mikey. You’ve been skimming for three months.”

I scan the room, my irritation giving way to a slow smile when I spot it. My favorite persuasion tool leans against the far wall—a Louisville Slugger baseball bat, its surface scarred from previous “conversations.” Someone’s been thoughtful enough to set it out for me.

“Well, would you look at that.” I stride over and wrap my fingers around the worn grip, feeling its familiar weight. Nothing fancy or complicated about a bat—just solid wood designed to make an impact. Just like me.

The bat makes a satisfying whoosh as I give it a practice swing. Simple. Effective. Devastating when applied correctly.

“Been waiting for you to get here,” Vane says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. “Figured you’d want the honors.”

I move back to stand in front of Mikey, who’s sweating so hard his cheap shirt is soaked through. His eyes track the bat as I twirl it between my hands.

“Please, Mr. Blackwood,” he babbles, “I can explain?—”

I tap the bat against the concrete floor. “Fifteen grand, Mikey. That’s what you’ve skimmed from us.”

“I—I needed it for my kid’s medical bills. I was gonna pay it back?—”

The bat whistles through the air as I swing it to rest on my shoulder.

This guy is so full of shit, as I know for a fact, he doesn’t even have a damn kid.

Mikey flinches so hard that the chair legs scrape against the concrete.

A dark stain spreads across his pants, the pungent scent of urine filling the room.

“Would you look at that,” Vane chuckles, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Guess you really scared the piss out of him.”

“Should’ve thought about the consequences before stealing from us.” I circle Mikey, letting the bat drag behind me. “If you needed money, you should’ve come to us. Xavier would’ve worked something out. He’s reasonable like that.”

“Very diplomatic, our eldest brother,” Vane agrees, his smile turning predatory. “Always trying to solve problems with words and arrangements.”

“But that’s not us, is it?” I grip the bat tighter, feeling that familiar surge of anticipation. “When Xavier talks about handling a situation , he means entering into negotiations.”

“When we say it,” Vane’s eyes glitter with dark excitement, “we mean this.”

Vane lunges forward without warning, his hand a blur as he whips out the hunting knife he always keeps strapped to his ankle. Metal flashes under the harsh fluorescent lights before disappearing into Mikey’s thigh with a sickening thunk .

Mikey’s scream echoes off the concrete walls as blood seeps from the wound, then over the edge of the chair, creating a puddle on the floor where Vane’s shoe becomes a secondary casualty of Mikey’s poor decision. The metallic scent fills the room instantly, sharp and pungent.

“Jesus, Vane!” I laugh, not bothered by the blood, but amused at my brother’s impatience. “Could’ve given me first swing.”

Vane yanks the blade out with a twist, causing the blood flow to quicken. “You were taking too long with your dramatic bat routine.”

Mikey’s sobbing now, pleading incoherently through his tears as blood pumps steadily from his thigh. The sight only heightens my earlier irritation. All that pent-up frustration from being interrupted while with Bianca surges through me.

“My turn.”

I position myself in front of Mikey, baseball bat held high. His fingers grip the chair arms, knuckles white with terror. Perfect targets.

“Please—” he starts.

The bat comes down with a satisfying crack across his right hand. Bone gives way under wood, fingers shattering like twigs. Mikey’s scream rises an octave higher, his body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

I don’t wait for him to catch his breath before swinging again, connecting with his left hand. The bat bounces slightly on impact, vibrations traveling up my arms. His pinky finger bends at an impossible angle.

“Fuck!” Mikey wails, vomit dribbling down his chin. “I’ll pay it back! Please!”

“Pay it back?” I laugh, swinging the bat in a lazy figure eight. “You hear that, Vane? He thinks there’s a payment plan for betrayal.”

“Adorable,” Vane says, wiping his blade on Mikey’s shoulder. “Maybe we should start a Blackwood Brothers Credit Union. Reasonable interest rates, flexible repayment options.”

“And if you miss a payment—” I bring the bat down on Mikey’s kneecap with a sickening crunch. His scream bounces off the concrete walls, nearly drowning out my words. “—we take it out in body parts.”

Mikey slumps forward, sobbing and mumbling incoherently. Blood pools beneath the chair, spreading in a lazy crimson circle.

“You know what I hate most?” I crouch down, bringing my face level with his.

I press the end of my bat under his chin, forcing his head up, so he has no choice but to meet my eyes.

“When people think we’re reasonable. That we’ll just let shit slide because they have a sad story, which I know for a fact in your case is bullshit.

You don’t have a fucking kid, so add lying to the list.”

Vane circles behind him, dragging the tip of his knife across Mikey’s shoulders. “Everyone’s got a sad story. Our mother died when we were kids. We ended up in foster care. You don’t see us crying about it.”

We both laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. Mikey’s eyes dart between us, finally understanding there’s no way out of this room.

“Please,” he whispers, blood bubbling between his lips. “I have money saved?—”

“Listen to me very carefully,” I interrupt, tapping the bat against his shattered knee. The whimper that escapes him is music to my ears. “Nobody steals from the Blackwoods and lives to spend their retirement fund. That’s not how this works.”

“It would set a bad precedent,” Vane adds conversationally, like we’re discussing business over coffee. “And besides—” his knife flashes again, slicing across Mikey’s ear, nearly severing it “—where’s the fun in that?”

I swing the bat one more time, connecting with Mikey’s shoulder. The crack of bone is satisfying, but I’m starting to get bored. The rush is wearing off, and watching him blubber is getting old.

“End it, Vane.” I rest the bat against the wall, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Use your knife. It’s probably easier than waiting for me to bash his brains in. I want to grab a drink after this.”

Vane twirls his blade between his fingers, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “Quick and clean, or slow?”

“Dealer’s choice.” I check my watch. “Just make it interesting. I’ve got time for one more show before happy hour ends at Purgatory.”

“Throat or heart?” Vane asks, circling Mikey like a shark scenting blood. “Heart’s cleaner, less spray radius.”

“Definitely throat,” I decide, stepping back to avoid the inevitable mess. “More dramatic that way. Just try not to hit an artery and spray the whole fucking room.”

Mikey’s sobbing intensifies, his body shaking so hard the chair rocks against the concrete. “Please, I have family?—”

“Should’ve thought about them before stealing from ours,” I cut him off. “Wrap it up, Vane. I’m thirsty.”

“You got it, little brother.” Vane positions himself behind Mikey, gripping his hair to yank his head back, exposing his throat.

In one swift, practiced motion, Vane drags the blade across Mikey’s neck, opening a deep, crimson smile. Blood sprays forward in an arc, splattering across the floor and up the far wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I jump back, but not before catching spatter across my boots. “I just said don’t hit an artery, you fucking idiot.”

Vane laughs, wiping his blade on Mikey’s shirt as the man gurgles his final breaths. “What’s the problem? Too messy for your delicate sensibilities?”

“This isn’t easy to clean up, asshole.” I gesture at the blood pooling rapidly beneath the chair, spreading in a widening circle across the concrete.

Vane shrugs, completely unbothered by the carnage. “Who the fuck cares? That’s what Jenson and the boys are for.” He pulls out his phone, types a quick message. “Done. Cleanup crew’s on the way.”

I grab a rag from the corner of the room and crouch down to wipe the blood from my boots, scrubbing at the leather with more care than I showed Mikey. These are Italian leather, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re such a princess about your shoes,” Vane laughs, flicking his knife closed and sliding it back into its ankle sheath.

“Some of us have standards.” I spit on a stubborn spot, scrubbing it with the rag until the leather shines again. “Not everyone wants to look like they just stumbled out of a slaughterhouse.”

Blood’s still pooling around Mikey’s feet, spreading across the concrete floor like spilled wine as it makes its way to the drain several inches from where he sits.

The smell of death permeates the air, metallic and thick.

It should bother me—the death, the violence, the fact that I just helped kill a man without hesitation—but it doesn’t. This is just business.

I toss the bloody rag aside and grab my bat, running my fingers over the fresh dents and smears.

The Louisville Slugger’s seen better days, but it’s still got plenty of conversations left in it.

I carry it to the wall and lean it carefully against the cinder blocks.

Jenson will clean it up with everything else.

“You good?” Vane asks, watching me with that knowing look. He can always tell when I need to blow off steam.

“Better now.” I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension release. “Nothing like a little violence to clear the head.”

We stride out of the warehouse side by side, leaving Mikey’s cooling body behind without a backward glance. The night air hits my face, washing away the stench of blood. Piss and fear. I inhale deeply, feeling more centered than I have all day.

Our motorcycles wait in the shadows, sleek predators ready to pounce. I swing my leg over my Aprilia, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibration travels up my spine, another kind of release.

I needed this—needed to feel powerful again after chasing Bianca for weeks with nothing to show for it. Violence is my element, my natural state. Not this pussy-footing around trying to charm an unwilling woman.