Page 32 of His Playground (Owning Vegas #2)

Chapter Thirty-One

T here are times where I enjoy getting my hands dirty.

Others when I don’t. I’ve never enjoyed this part of my job more than I do right now, though.

The chef who cooked and sent up that bowl of poisoned soup, which my wife fucking ate, is currently spread out on the table in front of me. Wrists and ankles shackled.

A calmness washes over me. It always does. There’s something about the smell of desperation in the air that speaks to my soul. The desperation of a man at my mercy. A mercy that doesn’t fucking exist.

Especially to someone who’s attacked those I love. I’d be pissed if it were just me, but this latest stunt touched my family. Which means I’m not just pissed. I’m out for blood like I’ve never been before.

Removing the gag from the fucker’s mouth, I lean over him to whisper in his ear. “Welcome to the end, motherfucker. Get comfortable, because this is about to be your final hours.”

“No… I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know what was in the soup,” he says. I’ve got that same bowl of soup right here. I plan on feeding it to him through a straw later.

“If I had a dime for every time I fucking heard that… Can’t they come up with something more original?

” I ask my friends, who are standing back, watching the scene unfold before them.

No doubt the fuckers have all taken bets on how long the guy’s gonna last. Nothing like a friendly wager. We are in Vegas after all.

“You know, one day, when someone actually says something original, I might just let them go,” Sammie says.

“No you wouldn’t,” Louie counters.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t, but I’d be more inclined to listen to whatever bullshit they can come up with after that.” Sammie smirks.

“I swear, Carlo. I was handed the bowl and told to send it up to you. That’s it.” The chef shakes his head from side to side. “Don’t do this.”

“Who gave you the bowl?” I press, keeping my expression neutral. Passive. The fluorescent light directly above his face constantly flickers like it’s supposed to.

The chef closes his eyes. “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

I laugh. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

The chef opens his eyes and looks directly at me. “You’ll kill me anyway.”

“You’re right. I will. But it’s up to you how long it takes me,” I remind him.

The door opens and I turn towards the sound. Emmanuel saunters in.

“You get ?em?” I ask.

“Did you doubt me?” he replies with a smirk.

“Never,” I tell him, taking the bag from his hands.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how sharp a chef’s knives were. Guess I’ll finally find out.” The bag lands on the table beside our friend here with a clank of metal and a thud . “Tell me, Chef, have you ever used your knives to cut into human meat?”

I smile when his face pales. On the inside. On the outside, my expression doesn’t change. Opening the bag, I pull out the rolled-up cloth and spread it out next to the chef’s torso.

Fingering the range of options, I decide on the one in the middle. “What do you use this for? It’s a fillet knife, right?” I ask him.

“Y-yes,” he says.

“Uh, Louie, how would one fillet a thigh?” I smirk at my friend, who raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t answer, though. Placing the knife at the top of our captee’s bare thigh, I press just enough to pierce the skin.

“Argh, fuck. No, Carlo, please. No!” He starts thrashing his body around the table, as much as he can anyway. The binds around his wrists and ankles don’t budge. He can struggle against them all he wants.

“Ready to talk now?” I ask him again.

“I-I can’t,” he says while shaking his head.

“Good, because this is going to be fun.” I slice the knife through his thigh, peeling off a very thin layer.

Blood sprays everywhere and his screams echo off the walls, but I don’t pay him any mind. All I see is how fucking sick my wife was after she ingested the poison he brought into our home.

I hold up the slice of human meat. “You’re the expert here. Tell me, Chef, how long would you cook this up for?”

He shakes his head, his skin covered in sweat. I don’t doubt he’s about to throw up.

“No idea? Huh, guess we’ll find out.” I turn around and look at Sammie. “Fire ?er up.” I gesture to the portable grill I brought into the room for this purpose. I’ve also got a blender…

I place the flesh on a plate next to the grill and walk back to the table, this time grabbing the biggest utensil in his collection. A meat cleaver. “Now this is a knife.” I smirk at him as I hold the blade above his face.

“No! Okay, I’ll tell you,” he says.

“Who?” I grunt.

“Mr. Marciano,” the chef spits out. I’m not surprised. It’s exactly who I was expecting it to be.

“Why would my father-in-law try to poison me?” I question. I know the answer to that one too, but I’d be stupid not to try to get more intel out of this fucker.

“Not you. Your wife. The soup was meant for her,” the chef replies. “He said you wouldn’t eat coconut.”

That tidbit is a surprise. My wife. “Why would he want to kill his own daughter? Me, I get.”

When he doesn’t answer, I raise the knife and bring it down on his fingers, slicing three of them off in one clean swoop.

“Ahh!” the chef screams. “I don’t know! Please just kill me already.”

I chuckle. “That would be too easy. You don’t get to die that quickly.”

“B-but you said if I told you…” he cries out.

I lean down and whisper against his ear, “I lied.”

Then I collect the three digits that rolled onto the ground, walk over to where Sammie is standing by the grill, and toss them on.

“How the fuck am I supposed to grill fingers?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. Pretend they’re sausages.” I shrug.

Picking up a cloth, I wipe my hands and retrieve my phone from my pocket. I need to call my wife, check in on her and see how my daughter is doing.

“Hey you,” Antonia answers on the first ring, almost as if she were waiting for my call. She shouldn’t have been. Charlotte was supposed to text me as soon as Antonia woke up again.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her. The chef takes that moment to start screaming for help. “Hold on a sec, babe.” I walk back over and stuff his mouth with the same rag I just used to wipe my hands.

“Are you okay?” Antonia says.

“Better now that I hear your voice. How are you feeling?” I repeat.

“Better. Jazzy and I are lounging around. She keeps asking when you’re coming home.”

“Soon,” I reply before changing the subject. “Do you remember when we were dating and I showed you around the penthouse, pointed out the parts most people don’t see?”

“I remember,” Antonia says.

“Good. You remember the first room we christened back then?”

“Uh-huh.” I can hear her smile through the phone.

“I want you to show Jazzy that room and how to get into it.” I didn’t want to scare my daughter by telling her about the safe rooms. But now, she needs to know where they are. Just in case.

“Do you think someone is going to try to get in?” Antonia’s voice drops to a whisper.

“It’s near impossible, babe. We have guys posted at all the entrances.”

“But not impossible ?” she says.

“I just want to make sure you remember. I’m going to be home soon. I love you,” I tell her.

“I love you too. Whatever you’re doing, just finish it quick. Not everything needs that delayed gratification you’re so fond of,” she mumbles, and I chuckle. My wife knows exactly what I’m doing. She’s smart enough not to mention it, though.

“I will,” I reply before cutting the call.

“We should get the girls out of that penthouse,” Louie says.

“You want them leaving without us? They’re safer inside that apartment than out of it at the moment,” I tell him.

“Probably.” He nods. “Finish up here. I’m gonna head there now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Emmanuel says, then smirks at me. “Have fun with your cookout.”

“Thanks.” I nod and turn back to the chef. It’s only then that I realize how quiet he’s gotten. He’s stopped moving too. “Hold up!” I call out to Louie and Emmanuel.

I walk up to the chef and my suspicion is confirmed. The asshole is dead. I must have stuffed that cloth too fucking far down his throat.

“Stop the grill, Sammie. He’s not going to be eating shit now,” I grunt. My eyes flick over to a couple of soldiers standing by the door. “Get rid of him,” I tell them.

A few minutes later, we pile into separate SUVs. Me with Sammie, Louie with Emmanuel. There are five others full of soldiers, a mixture of Emmanuel’s and ours, sandwiching us between them.