Page 10 of Monstrosity (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #5)

"It's not about deserving," I correct. "It's about what we need to do. He has information we need. He's a threat to people we protect. What he deserves is irrelevant. What matters is what needs to be done."

The apartment complex is exactly as shitty as Vanir described.

Peeling paint, broken security gate, the kind of place where people mind their own business because everyone's running from something.

A few locals eye us as we pull up, but they quickly look away.

They know predators when they see them.

Carlos lives on the third floor, apartment 3C.

The hallway smells like piss and the fluorescent lights overhead are flickering like a horror movie cliché.

No answer when we knock, but the lock is pathetic.

Geirolf has us inside in under thirty seconds.

The place reeks of stale smoke and old takeout. There's a laptop on the coffee table, still open, showing surveillance photos that make my blood boil.

Dasha at the coffee shop. Dasha walking to her car. Dasha laughing with Meghan. Dasha with my girls at the park.

"Fucking pig," Geirolf mutters, looking over my shoulder.

The photos are detailed, time-stamped, annotated with her routines.

This isn't casual—this is them preparing for something bigger.

"Check the bedroom," I tell Bodul. "Closets, under the bed. He's here somewhere."

The bathroom door slams shut, lock clicking.

Amateur move.

I kick it open to find Carlos trying to squeeze through the tiny window, ass stuck halfway out.

Geirolf grabs his legs and yanks him back in, dumping him on the cracked tile floor.

"Carlos Mendez," I say conversationally, stepping over him. "We need to have a little chat."

"I don't know nothing," he stammers, crab-walking backward until he hits the tub. "I'm nobody, man, just?—"

"See, that's a lie." I crouch down to his level. "You know a lot. Like where Dasha Reyes works. Where she lives. What time she leaves for work."

His face pales. "You're him. Rio."

"That's right. And you've been watching my woman."

"Just following orders, man. Nothing personal."

"Nothing personal?" I grab his throat, hauling him up. "You took pictures of my daughters. That feels pretty fucking personal to me."

Geirolf produces zip ties from his pocket, and within minutes, Carlos is secured to a kitchen chair.

Bodul stands guard by the door, trying not to look nervous.

I lay out the tools from Bjorn's kit on the kitchen table, taking my time, letting Carlos see each item.

His eyes track every movement, sweat already beading on his forehead.

"Here's how this works," I explain, pulling out my knife. "You tell me everything about Bembe's plans, and maybe you die quickly. You lie or stall, and I get creative. Understand?"

Carlos nods frantically. "I'll tell you everything, just?—"

"Good. Start with why you were watching Dasha."

"Bembe wanted intel on all the women connected to your club. Said they were leverage for something bigger."

"What's bigger?"

"He didn't tell me specifics. Just said he's planning something that'll bring the Raiders to their knees. The women are just the beginning."

I run the knife along his arm, not cutting yet, just letting him feel the edge. "Not good enough. Details, Carlos. I need details."

"There's a shipment coming in next week! Big one, enough product to flood the entire southeast. He needs you distracted while it moves through."

"So he threatens our women to keep us busy?" The knife bites the skin now, just a little. A drop of blood wells up. "Stupid plan."

"It's more than that!" Carlos yelps. "He's got someone inside. Someone feeding him information."

Everything goes still. "Inside the club?"

"I don't know! Maybe! Or someone close to it. He said he knows things, personal shit about your members."

I think about the photo of Dasha's car in my driveway, taken while I was dealing with Santos.

The timing was too perfect to be coincidence.

"Who's the inside source?"

"I swear I don't know. Bembe plays everything close. I'm just doing surveillance for him."

I believe him, which is unfortunate.

Dead ends piss me off.

"Tell me about the other women you've been watching."

"Just the coffee shop girls mainly. The blonde who's married to your Prez’s son. The Colombian who's yours. Sometimes others who come in regular."

"You have files on them?"

"On the laptop. Everything's there. Schedules, addresses, photos, vehicle info."

I nod to Geirolf, who goes to retrieve it.

This intel could be valuable, even if Carlos himself is just a bottom-feeder.

"How long have you been watching them?"

"Three months, maybe four. Bembe wanted to know everything. Their routines, their relationships, who matters to them."

"And what was he planning to do with this information?"

Carlos swallows hard. "Make examples. He said... he said one dead woman sends a message, but two makes a statement."

The knife goes deeper this time.

Carlos screams.

"Please," he whimpers when he catches his breath. "I told you everything. I'm nobody, just a guy with a camera."

"Just a guy with a camera who helped plan the murder of innocent women." I lean in close. "You know what I am, Carlos?"

He shakes his head, tears streaming.

"I'm a fucking monster." The words taste like truth. "I'm the thing Bembe should have warned you about. The kind of man who tortured Miguel Santos for hours and enjoyed every second."

"Santos is dead?"

"Very. And he died screaming, just like you're about to."

"But I told you everything!"

"You did. And I appreciate that." I pat his cheek almost gently. "But you watched my woman. You photographed my children. You think information buys you mercy?"

"Please—"

"Did Bembe tell you what happened to the men who killed my wife?" I ask conversationally, selecting the pliers from the table. "No? Let me educate you."

What follows is a lesson this man never wanted to learn.

I work methodically, professionally, making sure Carlos understands the price of threatening what's mine.

Start with the fingers—bones snap like twigs, each break punctuated by screams.

Move to the teeth—pliers grip and pull, blood flowing freely.

Bodul turns green but doesn't look away—good kid, he'll learn.

Geirolf assists, obviously working through his own demons, holding Carlos steady when he thrashes.

"You see," I explain as I work, "pain is just communication. And I'm very good at making myself understood."

Carlos screams, begs, pisses himself. Blood pools on the cracked linoleum, spreading like spilled wine.

None of it matters.

He's just meat and message now.

"The thing about monsters," I continue, switching to the blowtorch, "is that we're necessary. Men like you, like Bembe, you count on civilized people following civilized rules. But I'm not civilized. I'm what happens when you threaten the wrong family."

The smell of burning flesh fills the small apartment.

Carlos has stopped screaming—shock setting in.

"Still with me?" I check his pulse. Can't have him dying too soon. "Good. We're almost done."

When it's over, when Carlos is nothing but a cautionary tale, I step back to survey the scene.

Blood on the walls, on the floor, on me.

The kitchen looks like a slaughterhouse, which seems appropriate.

"Holy shit," Bodul breathes. "You really are a monster."

"Yeah," I agree, wiping my hands on a towel. "But I'm a monster who protects his family. Remember that."

"What do we do with..." He gestures at what's left of Carlos.

"Leave him. Let Bembe find him like this." I pick up the laptop. "But we take this. Might be useful."

The ride back is quiet.

odul's processing what he's seen, Geirolf's satisfied with the violence, and I'm thinking about how to tell Dasha we need to leave our home.

My phone buzzes with a text from her:

Girls are at school. Coffee shop is slow. Missing you.

Fuck. She has no idea what's coming.

Missing you too. I'll pick you up early today. We need to talk.

Everything okay?

Will be. Trust me.

Always.

That single word hits harder than it should.

She trusts me, even knowing what I am.

Even after I just spent an hour proving exactly how monstrous I can be.

Back at the clubhouse, I hand the laptop to Vanir and head for the bathroom to clean up.

The blood on my hands washes away easily enough, but there's a splatter on my neck I miss.

The water runs pink down the drain, carrying away Carlos's blood but not the satisfaction of getting the job done.

"Get what you needed?" Runes asks when I return to the chapel.

"Intel and a message delivered. Carlos won't be watching anyone anymore."

"Good. Meghan's already at the coffee shop, preparing Dasha for tonight. You should head over there."

"She's not going to like this."

"She'll like being dead even less," Fenrir points out. "Sometimes protecting the people we love means making choices they won't like."

He's right, but that doesn't make it easier.

I stop by the family quarters to check what supplies we have—the room I'm planning for us is decent-sized, with its own bathroom and enough space for the girls.

It's not home, but it'll do.

Some of the old ladies have already started preparing it, adding feminine touches that will make the transition easier.

The drive to the coffee shop feels longer than usual.

Every car could be surveillance, every pedestrian a threat.

This is what war does—makes you see enemies everywhere.

I find them at the coffee shop, huddled together behind the counter.

The place is empty except for them—Meghan closed it down early.

Dasha looks up when I enter, and her smile is like sunshine until she sees my expression. "What's wrong?"

"We need to pack some things," I say gently. "Us and the girls are staying at the clubhouse for a while."

"Rio—"

"It's not negotiable, baby." I move closer, needing to touch her. "Things are escalating. The house isn't safe."

She studies my face, and her eyes catch on something.

Her hand comes up to touch my neck, fingers coming away with blood I missed.

"Is this yours?" Her voice is carefully neutral.

"No."

"Whose?"