Page 8 of Ruthless Chaos

Maybe he’ll finally go too far this time.

After what feels like an eternity, he pulls my head up. I suck in a painful breath, then steel my expression. Quick, shallow inhalation through my nose does little to quench my desperate need for air, but it’s the only way I can keep from losing my composure.

He’ll capitalize on any bit of weakness I show.

The spluttering fluorescent lights in the basement cast flickering highlights on the man inflicting my torture. Ben’s face is callous—it usually is, and the angry scar over his eye makes him look even fiercer—but I can tell from his eyes that he wants this as little as I do. But just like me, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s just my father’s henchman.

Father stands a few paces off from us, watching this unfold with displeasure.

“Tell me where he is!” His voice echoes through the tiny basement room.

He slams his fist on a nearby table, disturbing the selection of knives, brass knuckles, and other tools of torture he’ll have Ben use on me if he finds my answer unsatisfactory. As fucked up as it is, this isn’t the first time he’s done this to me.

“I don’t know where he is, sir,” I rasp.

My voice is so weak it surprises me. I try to straighten, but the bite of the barbed rope binding my arms keeps me hunched. Ben’s grip on my head grows loose.

Father is silent for a few moments. I’ve given him the same answer every time, and it’s the truth. I have no clue where my brother is. Graham was smart enough not to tell me that much about his plan.

I’m sure he knew the lengths father would go to get it out of me.

He walks over slowly, the sound of his dress shoes crunching the concrete an ominous backdrop to my racing thoughts. Now that I have a steady supply of oxygen, my temper ignites. I’m as ashamed as I am angry. I’m twenty-two, six-three and fit enough to knock out my old man with a single punch. Yet, he has me tied up in the basement like a hog.

His own flesh and blood.

“I believe you, Alexander.” His voice is low. “You were always smarter than that fucking rat.” The contempt in his voice is laughable.

Oh, how the tables turn.

Up until twenty-four hours ago, Graham was in line to succeed our father. He was the golden boy, his right-hand man. The only person he trusted. I was always in the background, the black sheep. The son he wished he never had. Now, he wants me to believe that he’s preferred me all this time.

I recognize his words for what they are—desperation.

Maybe I’d be desperate too if the child I invested all my attention in over the last three decades suddenly disappeared in the middle of the most violent turf war London’s ever seen. A turf war thatGrahamstarted.

A little diversification would have done him well, I suppose.

He instructs Ben to untie me. My wrists are raw and bleeding from the rope. Now that I’m not focused on getting enough air to survive, pain blossoms all over my body. The punches Ben gave me earlier are starting to hurt. I’ll be sore as shit in the morning.

Still, it could have been worse. He didn’t touch my face.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just need to be sure,” father says when we’re out of the basement.

He had me tied up and brought to a safe house in the woods to torture me within inches of my life. Regardless of what he says, I know what he planned to do if he had reason to believe I helped Graham defect.

I nod, even though I want to punch him in the face. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

Father smiles and reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder. I almost flinch. We’re around the same height now, though his frame has gotten frailer over the years. I look him over—the wrinkles by his eyes, the graying temples, the shaky fingers. He’s a shell of the man who terrorized my childhood, but he still holds so much power over me.

Over us all, really.

“The jet is ready to take you to school tomorrow,” he says, checking his watch. “I expect even more of you this year, Alexander. There’s no room for fuckups.”

We’re standing outside the rickety shack. Ben has left us to sit in the SUV with the driver. This is the most private conversation we’ll be able to have before the drive back into the city. My father pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it.

He offers me one, but I shake my head. I’ve gone two years without one and I don’t plan to go back.

“Yes, sir,” I say, turning my eyes away from him. Above us, stars are just beginning to twinkle as the sky grows darker. “I will not let you down.”