Page 20 of Monstrosity (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #5)

I grab his wrist, slamming it against the dock until he releases the weapon.

Then I wrap my hands around his throat, ready to end this.

"Wait!" he gasps. "Flora! I know about Flora!"

Everything stops.

"What?" My grip loosens slightly.

"Your wife," he coughs out. "I know who really ordered the hit. It wasn't us!"

I laugh, dark and bitter. "Really? That's what you're going with? The mysterious puppet master defense?"

"No! Listen! We were hired. Contracted. Someone wanted her dead and used us to do it!"

"Bullshit." I tighten my grip again. "You think I'm fucking stupid, Bembe? You think I haven't heard every desperate lie from men about to die? 'It wasn't me, it was orders.' 'Someone else made me do it.' Same old song."

"I have proof!" He's clawing at my hands now, face turning purple. "In my office! Documents! Recordings!"

"How convenient. Proof that's nowhere near here." I lean in close. "Here's what I know—your men shot my pregnant wife. That makes you responsible."

"But we were just?—"

"Just what? Just following orders? Just doing business?" I slam his head against the dock. "You put shot her while my daughter watched. Shot her when she was pregnant. There's no 'just' about it."

"Rico Castellano!" he gasps out desperately. "It was Rico Castellano who paid us!"

I freeze. Not because I believe him, but because he's reached the truly pathetic stage—throwing out random names, hoping something sticks.

"Who?" I'm shaking him now. "Never heard of him. Try again."

"Please! I can prove it! The Irish—they'll want me alive—you promised!"

"The Irish want you breathing. They didn't specify how much." My knife appears in my hand. "Maybe I take a few pieces first. Help jog your memory about whose idea it really was to kill Flora. Maybe I don’t even give them to you alive after everything you did to my family."

"Rio!" Irish soldiers surround us, weapons trained. "Boss wants him alive, remember?"

I look at Connor, then back at Bembe. "Change of plans."

"That wasn't the deal?—"

"The deal was we help you get your drugs. They're in the warehouse, probably thirty million worth. This piece of shit?" I haul Bembe to his feet. "He's mine. Personal business."

Connor's jaw tightens. "Liam won't like this."

"Liam gets fifty-five percent of the biggest score he's ever seen. He'll get over it." I press my knife to Bembe's throat, just hard enough to draw blood. "Unless you want to try and take him from me?"

The Irish soldiers exchange glances.

They're outnumbered now, with more Raiders appearing from the warehouse.

Connor's not stupid—he knows this isn't a fight worth having.

Doran comes up, obviously overhearing the situation. “Leave him. I’ll explain to my uncle. It was necessary. Bembe gave them no choice.”

Connor looks at Doran and nods, knowing better than to argue with the man who has Irish and Russian mob blood flowing through his veins.

"Rio!" Tor's voice on comms. "We've secured the warehouse. You need to see this."

Connor finally says, "But this better not come back on us."

Doran grabs Connor by the throat, “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

"It won't." I'm already dragging Bembe toward the warehouse. "Tell Liam he'll get his money. This is between me and the man who tried to murder my family."

Inside the warehouse, my brothers have set up a perimeter.

Bodies cleared to the sides, drugs stacked and cataloged.

And in the center, a nice clear space that'll do perfectly.

"String him up," I tell Gorm, shoving Bembe forward. "Time to see if his story changes when he's got proper motivation."

"Rio," Tor says quietly. "The Irish?—"

"Will get their cut and go home happy. Doran’s already covering for us." I'm already pulling out my tools. "This fucker threatened Dasha. Put bruises on her throat. Made my daughters live in fear. You think I'm letting him walk out of here?"

"Didn't say that." Tor's smile is dark. "Just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing. Need help?"

"No. This one's personal."

They string Bembe up from one of the ceiling beams, arms stretched above his head, toes barely touching the ground.

The position puts stress on everything—shoulders, back, legs.

Won't take long before the pain starts.

"Last chance," I tell him, circling slowly. "Truth about Flora. Who really ordered it?"

"I told you—Rico Castellano?—"

My knife parts cloth and skin in one motion. Not deep, just enough to hurt. "Lie."

"It's true! I have proof?—"

Another cut. "You said documents. Recordings. Convenient things that don't exist."

"They do! In my safe—the combination is?—"

"Don't care." This time I go deeper. "Because you're lying. Creating phantom villains to save your worthless life."

For the next hour, I work slowly.

Every time he spins a new story, changes a detail, I make him pay for it.

My brothers stand guard, making sure no one interferes.

The Irish have wisely decided to focus on loading trucks.

"Please," Bembe sobs eventually. "I'll tell you the truth."

"Finally." I step back, wiping blood from my blade. "So tell me."

"We... we did it. The cartel. Because she was looking into our shipping manifests. She found discrepancies, was going to report them. She did report us, to someone, about something different."

Now that sounds like truth, and I already know Flora knew more than she should have.

Flora always was too honest for her own good.

"But someone did tip us off about her," he continues desperately. "Someone who knew what she'd found, that she was going to do more. I don't know who—I swear I don't—but it came from inside."

"Inside where?"

"I don't know! The message just said to handle the accountant before she caused problems. That she was a threat to operations."

I consider this.

It's possible.

Flora worked for a shipping company that handled lots of cargo.

If someone was using it to move drugs...

"Who gave the order on your end?"

"Mateo Vega. He ran our Florida operations then. He's dead now—you killed him three years ago."

I did. Slowly. But this is the first I'm hearing about Flora being targeted for her job rather than being my wife.

"You're telling me my pregnant wife died because she was good at her job?"

"I'm sorry?—"

"No." I pick up the blowtorch. "You're not sorry. Not yet. But you will be."

What follows would make what I did to Carlos look merciful.

Every ounce of rage, every moment of grief from the last five years gets channeled into making Bembe understand the cost of his choices.

He screams about Flora. About the threat to Dasha. About targeting my children.

He screams until he can't anymore.

And when it's finally over, when Bembe is nothing but meat and memory, I step back and survey my work.

"Feel better?" Tor asks quietly.

"No." I wipe my hands clean. "But it's finished. He can't hurt anyone else."

"What about his story? Someone inside tipping them off about Flora?"

"Maybe true, maybe not." I'm exhausted suddenly. "If someone did betray her, they've had five years to cover their tracks. But, I saw the fear in his eyes—he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear, thought I’d let him keep his life."

Gorm offers. "If someone in our city got your wife killed, we'll find them."

I nod, grateful for the support, but I know a desperate man will do and say anything. "Right now, let's finish here. Get the drugs moved, scene cleaned. I want to go home to my family."

"Rio?" Tor holds up his phone. "The Irish are asking about Bembe."

"Tell him Bembe didn't make it. Tried to escape, forced my hand." I look at what's left of the cartel leader. "Tell him I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we had no other choice.”

Runes comes up, overhearing every word. “Leave Liam to me. You did what needed to be done. All of you, clean the place up”

We do exactly what our Prez wants—cleaning up evidence, making sure our tracks are covered.

By the time we're done, you'd never know the massacre that took place here.

Except for the missing drugs. And the missing cartel leader.

But those aren’t our problems.