Page 6 of Sadistic Retribution (Rise of Phoenyxx #2)

Hunter

I'm returning from the bathroom, when I hear a loud, “Shit!” from the computer room I’m hanging out in.

I haul ass back inside. “What?” I shout.

Thor responds shakily, “I think I might have found something about your sister, man.”

Hunter Age 14

I take another punch to my gut. I grimace, but give as good as I get. This little fucker isn’t going to steal the money I just got to feed Cynthia.

I hustle the streets to get money for me and my sister. This fucker in front of me is a guy I just hustled at pool, and he’s pissed. Tough shit.

I calmly pull out the gun tucked into the back of my pants and point it at him. “Still want to be tough?”

He holds his hands up. “Whoa, man. It’s cool. I was just pissed. You know, I like your style. Want to make better money?”

I hesitate, then slightly lower the gun. “Doing what?”

“Selling pot and party drugs.” He shrugs. “It’s easy money. The shits around here salivate for that stuff.”

“How dangerous is it?”

“It’s not too bad, as long as you don’t stiff the supplier.”

I contemplate it, then decide fuck it—I'll do anything for my sister. I tuck the gun away and hold out my hand. “Deal.”

He shakes my hand. “Cool. I’ll take you to my guy. Just be chill.”

I can be chill, no problem. I'm so desperate to keep Cynthia healthy and safe, I'm willing to do literally anything. Drug dealing isn’t that big of a deal.

“Oh my God! What? Is she alive? Where is she?”

“Slow down, man. See this here? These comments make me think this may be referencing Cynthia.”

I look at the words on the screen. I don’t even know what the hell he’s hacked into, but I concentrate on what I can understand.

The hunted meat is secure at a new location.

Is it aged?

It's over drinking age.

Okay, but is it still fresh?

Hardly. It is still quite succulent, though.

I want in. I need to taste the hunted.

I turn my confused face towards Thor for an explanation. He points to the screen. “See the references to ‘hunted meat’? And saying it’s over drinking age? This means it’s over 21. Your sister would be 23 now, right? And the ‘hunted’ could be referring to you, Hunter.”

My jaw hits the floor, and ice pulses through my veins. “Can you find out more? Where she might be held? We have to find out, no matter what we’d be walking into.”

“I know, I’ll try. It may take quite a while, though. So don’t go planning anything just yet.”

“Shouldn’t we notify Jax?”

“Notify me of what?” Jax’s deep voice comes into the room.

Thor spins in his seat. “We may have a lead on Cynthia.”

“Good work. Keep at it.” Jax turns to me. “Don’t get your hopes up. We've chased a lot of dead ends up to this point. Please, stay patient.”

I blow out a long breath. “I will, I will. We need to find Pretty... I mean, Phoenyxx too. Like yesterday.”

“We’re trying,” Bill mutters from the corner. “Still working on Augustine’s computer. Fucker is a fortress.”

Jax claps a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go eat, and catch a nap? You look like shit, Harris. You can’t help anyone if your tank is on E.”

I start to protest, then realize he’s right. “Yeah, okay.” I head out to the kitchen. I'm so exhausted I can barely stand up. The smell of coffee and sizzling bacon makes my stomach rumble loudly. I'll fortify so I can find both my girls.

Synn

For two fucking days we’ve been looking for Ghost with no luck.

We've searched every inch of the property, even busting into other people’s rooms. We've searched as much of the woods as we could but came up with nothing.

It's a huge forest though, and it would take days just to try and get through it.

“Bro,” Trikk complains, “he’s got to be somewhere!”

I nod, knowing that must be true. Then a thought occurs to me. “Has anyone checked his room in the tunnels?”

“I did,” Frost responds, frowning. “No sign that he’s been there recently.”

“Fuck! We've got to find him.”

“Yeah, I’m worried,” Purge admits. “You know what he’s like when he’s lost in his head.”

While we’re thinking, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I quickly snatch it out, swiping the screen to see the notification. “It’s my father. Stay quiet!” I answer before it can ring again and inject pleasant neutrality into my voice. “Father.”

“Son, I trust that you and the others are well.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It’s time we plan your trips home. You've all completed your tasks wonderfully.”

Shit. I pause, trying to think of an excuse to hold off. “Well, Sir, I feel we all need some more time to scrub ourselves of the darkness.”

“Really? You do, hmmm? Do tell.”

“We’re restless after following through with the last order. We'd appreciate more time to get it out of our systems.”

“I'll give you boys two weeks to rid yourselves of your sins. I'll alert the other families, as well. But, Son—you WILL be coming home.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” I disconnect the call, sliding my phone back in my pocket. All our fathers are walking darkness, but we’ve all known that since we were kids.

My father, Joseph Franco, is the head of the Mafia. He was born and bred into this life, as was I. My grandfather was a mean son-of-a-bitch, without one ounce of warmth in his body. Lovely traits he passed on to his son.

Trikk's and Razor’s fathers are the other two Mafia families in our secret little group.

Pauly Barbieri, Trikk’s father, is the nicest one out of them.

Although he pimps out his son like a cheap whore.

It leaves a nasty taste in my mouth that he’s been traded with older, married Mafia wives as soon as he hit puberty.

I mean, he lost his damn virginity to an old crone.

Gary Marino, Razor’s father, is a vicious fucker.

He's ruthless, and takes violence to the extremes. Traits he’s passed on to his son.

The others’ fathers are Bratva. Vlad Volkov is Purge’s father. That man is as obsessed with religion and sin as mine is. Both Purge and I have been shoved in tiny spaces since we were kids. I developed claustrophobia, but somehow Purge is unaffected.

Niki Aslanov is Frost’s father. He is... peculiar. He’s infamous for the way he kills, but when he discovered his son was a true sociopath, he freaked the fuck out.

Lev Petrov is Ghost’s father. He’s sick and sadistic, chilling my blood whenever I have to spend any time with him. After seeing the girls in cages, Ghost became quieter and more withdrawn. His father honed him as a perfect, silent weapon. He taught him to be completely invisible.

As kids, we didn’t realize that it’s odd for Italians and Russians to mix—let alone work together. When we were teenagers, we got a taste of that wrongness.

We knew better than to question our fathers about it.

Synn Age 14

“Fuck you, suka!” Ghost yells, grinning as he chases me through the house.

“Kiss my ass, stronzo,” I yell back.

We’re alone in the house, our fathers busy with their ‘businesses’. The only time Ghost feels comfortable being loud is when they’re gone.

We haul ass by the office door, which is cracked open. I frown, knowing that’s not normal. I stop and poke my head in.

There's a mess of papers everywhere. My father’s desk, the floor. My father is neat as a pin—he would never make a mess like this.

I start sifting through the loose pages, looking for clues. Ghost joins me; where one of us goes, the other follows. We look through every page, attempting to assemble them back in order. I pick up a page, frowning at the content.

“Ghost, is this Russian?”

He takes it from me. “Yeah... that’s weird. Why would your father have a Russian document?” He scans it, face going white as he reads.

“What?” I ask impatiently.

“Um, it’s one big insult. Calling your father an Italian interloper, waste of space. It says he’ll spit on the Italians, that they’re trash.”

“The fuck? I don’t get it...”

We hastily grab up the rest of the papers, finding one other weird document. It looks like a thesaurus page, or something ripped from a book.

‘It is widely known that the Italian Mafia and Russian Bratva are bitter enemies. It's basically unheard of for them to work together. History is rich with examples of the violence and death between warring families. It stems back hundreds of years, back to the first hints of both mobs.’

Our jaws drop.

“How could this be true?” I am seriously confused.

“I don’t get it, either,” Ghost says. “But I'm not turning on you. We’re all brothers here.”

“I agree. Fuck history!”

“Well, I just bought us two more weeks,” I say. “We need to hit it hard. I refuse to leave here without ensuring Pazessca’s safety.” Murmurs of agreement surround me. “We have to step up our search...”

The sentence dies on my lips when a bedraggled, barely conscious Ghost practically falls through the door.

“Bro!” Trikk yells, darting over to help him to the sofa.

He looks awful. Skinny, paler than usual, and covered in blood. In two strides, I reach him. “Whose blood is this, Ghost? Where is the body?”

He doesn’t even look up. “It’s mine… only mine.”

I glance up at Frost, and he nods. Great minds and all that. “Have you eaten or drank anything?” I ask. Ghost shakes his head, slumped down.

“Get up, Ghost. Let me and Frost check your injuries. And Trikk? Make him some food.”

“On it!” Trikk darts into the kitchen.

I help Ghost up, Frost coming to his other side.

We half-carry him into the bathroom. I shove up his shirt, wrangling it off.

He is covered in blood—some dry, some fresh.

Frost grabs a washrag, running it under warm water and adding a bit of soap to it.

He gently washes away the blood from Ghost’s arms and torso.

There are so many cuts, I can’t count them.

“Pants,” I command, knowing his lower half won’t be much better. Frost helps Ghost out of his pants while I hold him upright. His legs are full of cuts, as is his lower stomach. Frost cleans those off too.

“He’s lost quite a bit of blood,” Frost points out.

“I can see that,” I say through a clenched jaw. “Grab the ointment.”

Frost complies, slathering it over all his cuts. “I’ll grab him a shirt and pants,” he says, heading out to Ghost’s room.

“Brother... do I need to worry, here? Are you trying to kill yourself?” I ask.

Ghost finally looks up, tears streaming down his face. “Not trying to off myself,” he whispers. “Just need the pain to stop.”

Fucking motherfucker. If it’s the last thing I do, I'm killing those fuckhead fathers. Every last one of them.

Frost comes back with a t-shirt and sweats. We gently help Ghost into the fresh clothes, then guide him back over to the sofa. Once he’s seated, Trikk brings in a plate of eggs and bacon, with a tall bottle of water.

“Sip and eat slowly, Brother,” he tells Ghost, caressing his cheek. Trikk and Ghost have gotten closer, because of... Pazessca. Fuck. Now I need a damn Tylenol for the headache from this insanity.