Page 6 of Monstrosity

It's five years of controlled rage finally finding an outlet worthy of its intensity.

He screams until his voice gives out.

Then he screams some more, silent now but no less agonized.

I work methodically, precisely, taking my time to ensure the message is clear.

This is what happens to men who threaten my family.

This is what happens to men who take mothers from their children.

This is what happens when you mistake Rio Rojas for someone who shows mercy.

When it's finally over, when Santos is nothing but meat and message, I step back to admire my work.

Bodul is pale but attentive, learning lessons he'll carry for the rest of his life.

Tor just nods approvingly—he's seen my handiwork before.

"Clean this up," I tell Bodul, stripping off my bloody gloves. "I want you and Gorm to make sure it's found in Culebra territory. Let them know what's coming."

"Who are you to give me orders?" Bodul asks, voice slightly hoarse.

I meet his eyes until understanding dawns. "I have permission from the VP and Prez to give orders to the other prospects. Tor can vouch for me, and you should know better."

I check my phone as we walk back to the car.

Three missed calls from the clubhouse, two texts from Geirolf about timing, and one message that makes my blood run cold.

From Dasha:

Going in early today. Not sure what time you’ll be home. Girls are asleep in their room. Tindra will be there babysitting. Coffee's ready for morning. Drive safe.

Simple words. Innocent words.

Words that confirm everything Santos told me.

They know about her. They know she matters. They knowexactlyhow to hurt me.

"Drop me at home," I tell Tor as we climb into the car. "I need to check on something."

The drive takes twenty minutes, which feels like hours.

I sit in the back seat, watching Jacksonville blur past until we’re back in Tallahassee, thinking about Flora’s last words and Dasha’s innocent text and the terrible symmetry of history preparing to repeat itself.

At a red light, my phone buzzes again.

This time it's not Dasha.

Unknown number:

Nice work at the plant. Bembe sends his regards.

Below the text is a photo.

Dasha's car in our driveway.

Time stamp: forty-seven minutes ago.