Page 27 of Intense

Or perhaps one right next to my boss. I suppose that’s better than in a grave.

Chapter 11

FINN

The sweet aroma of chocolate floods my airways. The place is crazy with our workers, creating America’s favorite flavors.

They’re paid a lot to turn a blind eye.

And no one except us has access to the back of the building.

Where our drugs and guns get delivered.

Where we play our games.

Where I now torture my victims to death, but in this case, I don’t have the energy for a long, drawn out spectacle. He won’t provide any answers to us that we don’t already have about Arthur. He just simply needs to die.

Pressing my finger up to the scanner and entering the passcode, the door unlocks, and I’m through to my torture chambers.

I step into the white room. Bright lights overhead. The floor is flawless—no cracks, no drains, just marble that gleams like bone under the fluorescents.

A pool sits in the center with a golden fountain, filled with warm, rippling chocolate. The crown jewel of our factory’s tour lies on the other side of hell. No one suspects what’s beneath it.

He’s already here. Tied to a metal chair, barefoot, shaking, eyes wide like he’s finally realized he won’t be walking out of here.

I’m glad Reggie didn’t sedate him. I want him awake. I want his fear. I fucking thrive on it.

“Evening,” I mutter, rolling up my sleeves.

He jerks in the chair, the ropes creaking. He recognizes me now. That makes it sweeter.

This man blindly followed Arthur Bowen to his death.

“I’ve been thinking,” I continue, pacing in slow circles around him. “There’s no satisfaction in slicing you open while you scream. That’s too easy. Too clinical, and you see, I do enough of that at work. I want more. I’ve had quite a day.”

His lip trembles. “Please?—”

I snap.

With one hand, I grip the back of the chair and slam it to the ground. His skull cracks against the marble, and I crouch beside him, watching him bleed.

“You will give me something,” I whisper, “because I need to feel it too.”

I untie the ropes. His wrists are raw. His hands tremble as they realize the mistake, that freedom isn't coming.

The same fate the rest of the Bowen men had. After this man, it’s just Arthur himself left to kill.

“Get up,” I bark. He doesn’t move.

So I grab him by the collar and lift him like a rag doll, shoving him upright. He stumbles and tries to swing at me.

Good.

I take the hit. A weak punch to my jaw. It hurts more than I thought it would.

But not enough. Not nearly enough.

So I return the favor. My fist cracks into his ribs. Again. And again. Until his knees buckle and he coughs blood onto the marble.