Page 4 of The Beast’s Broken Angel
BLOOD TRIBUTE
ADRIAN
I watched as Dominic forced the kneeling man's head back, exposing his throat. Thomas Wilson trembled before me, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his swollen face. The warehouse's concrete floor bore dark stains from previous judgments, a record of betrayals written in iron and salt.
The metal rafters above us creaked, the only sound besides Thomas's pathetic whimpering.
Moonlight sliced through the high windows, casting long shadows across the execution space.
I inhaled the familiar scents of rust, fear, and gunpowder that forever lingered here, drawing them deep into my lungs like an old comfort.
“Please, Mr. Calloway, I have children,” Thomas begged, his voice cracking. “Three little ones. They need their father.”
I adjusted my Italian leather gloves, feeling the tight pull of scarred skin beneath the right one.
The flames had claimed that side of my face and body twenty-four years ago, leaving a map of pain etched permanently into my flesh.
My face remained expressionless as I studied the pathetic display before me.
Dominic's grip tightened on Thomas's hair, causing him to release a small, animal-like whine.
“So did the men who died when you gave Vega our shipment route,” I replied, my voice soft yet carrying throughout the silent warehouse.
Every man present strained to hear my words, knowing they carried the weight of unimpeachable law.
“Jeffries had two boys. Michaels had a newborn daughter he'll never see walk.
Your children will receive financial support until they're eighteen. More consideration than you showed our fallen.”
Thomas sobbed harder, his chest heaving with the effort. I stepped closer, close enough to smell the acrid stench of his terror-sweat and the whiskey he'd consumed earlier in a failed attempt at courage.
“I didn't know they would kill anyone,” he whispered. “Roberto promised they'd just steal the merchandise. No bloodshed.”
A lie. In our world, promises meant nothing without power to enforce them. Thomas had known exactly what would happen when he sold our route information. He had merely hoped the Vegas would protect him afterward. Another miscalculation in a life full of fatal errors.
Dominic offered me the ceremonial raven-handled knife, its blade gleaming hungrily in the dim light.
I preferred this method for traitors—personal, intimate, requiring me to feel the life drain away.
A reminder that betrayal is paid in blood, not bullets.
The handle fit my palm perfectly, as familiar as a lover's touch.
“The Calloway family has built its reputation on two principles, Thomas,” I said, running my thumb along the flat of the blade. “We protect our own. And we punish those who betray us.”
“I'm sorry,” he sobbed, all dignity gone now. “I'll make it right. I'll tell you everything about Vega's operation. Please, just let me?—”
I moved forward in one fluid motion, the knife finding its target with practiced ease. Thomas's final gasp bubbled red as I stepped back, avoiding the arterial spray with long-practiced skill. His eyes went wide with shock, then vacant, the life draining from them as his body slumped forward.
I handed the blade to Viktor for cleaning, checking my watch.
Blood had splattered across the floor in a Rorschach pattern that momentarily transfixed me, echoing older stains I'd never been able to wash away.
The memory of my parents' blood soaking into imported Persian carpets flashed unbidden through my mind.
“Cleanup,” I instructed, turning away from Thomas's corpse. “Then the usual disposal. Make sure his body is found by Vega's people before dawn. A message needs to be delivered.”
My men moved with practiced coordination, no wasted motion or needless chatter.
The night's real business awaited, and this execution had been merely a necessary preliminary.
I headed toward the waiting car, already mentally transitioning from executioner to socialite.
London's elite awaited my presence, unaware of the bloody ritual I'd just performed as easily as changing my shirt.
The charity auction at Thornbridge Gallery presented a sharp contrast to the warehouse's brutal tableau.
Champagne flowed freely instead of blood, tuxedos replacing tactical gear.
The gallery glowed with warm light reflecting off polished marble floors, the air perfumed with expensive scents and polite conversation .
I moved through London's elite with practiced ease, my scars drawing quick glances immediately masked by polite smiles.
Years of navigating these dual worlds had taught me to use my disfigurement as both shield and weapon.
People seldom looked past the scars to the predator beneath, a misconception I regularly exploited.
A waiter offered champagne; I declined with a slight shake of my head.
I never drank at events requiring absolute clarity.
Across the room, I spotted Harrison deep in conversation with a government minister, his silver-fox charm working its usual magic.
Our eyes met briefly. He nodded almost imperceptibly before returning to his conversation. The pieces were moving into place.
“Adrian Calloway,” a sultry voice purred from behind me. “I didn't expect to see you at something as mundane as a charity auction.”
I turned to find Miranda Dumont, gallery owner and occasional bed partner, her crimson dress cut low enough to reveal the constellation of freckles across her collarbones.
She stepped closer than propriety dictated, the familiar scent of her jasmine perfume stirring memories of her writhing beneath me, her nails leaving crescents in my unblemished shoulder.
“The Thornbridge Foundation supports burn victims,” I replied, allowing a hint of my attraction to colour my voice. “A cause close to my heart, as you well know.”
Her fingers brushed my arm, a deliberate touch that sent blood rushing south despite my determination to focus on business tonight. “And here I thought you came for the art,” she murmured, her eyes promising pleasures we both knew she could deliver.
“That too,” I conceded, a small smile playing at the corner of my mouth. “Particularly lot thirty-seven.”
“The Caravaggio study? I should have known you'd be after that. Your collection of the Italian masters is becoming quite renowned in certain circles.”
Before I could respond, the auctioneer's voice cut through the pleasant haze of desire Miranda always evoked in me. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The auction will commence in five minutes.”
“Find me after,” Miranda whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “I have a private collection I'd like to show you. Pieces not meant for public consumption.”
As she glided away, I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the sway of her hips beneath clinging silk.
Sex with Miranda had always been uncomplicated—a physical release with a woman who neither feared my scars nor harboured illusions about my capacity for emotional attachment.
Tonight, however, business took precedence over pleasure.
I took my usual seat in the second row, catalog open to the item that had drawn me here.
The Caravaggio study depicted Saint Sebastian in his final moments, arrows piercing his flesh while his face reflected not agony but a disturbing ecstasy.
Pain and pleasure intertwined, the saint's expression mirroring one I'd seen countless times—the moment when life drains from a man's eyes, that second of perfect clarity before darkness claims them.
“Lot thirty-seven, the previously undisplayed Caravaggio study,” the auctioneer announced after working through several lesser pieces.
My pulse quickened beneath my composed exterior.
This work would complete my collection of the Italian master's darkness, a private gallery of suffering and transcendence that spoke to the duality of my own existence.
I raised my paddle at one million pounds, a starting bid that would discourage casual interest. Movement to my right caught my attention.
Vernon Shaw, art dealer for the Vega family, raised his paddle in opposition.
Our eyes met across the aisle. He blanched visibly, recognition dawning in his watery blue eyes.
The man's paddle trembled slightly when he raised it again against my next bid.
A foolish move made from ignorance of the night's earlier events.
I added another hundred thousand pounds with a small nod, watching Shaw's desperate phone consultation.
The Vega representative didn't know that his employers were currently discovering Thomas's cooling body.
Shaw's face grew increasingly pale as our bidding war escalated, the price climbing to heights that would make headlines in tomorrow's art publications.
At two point six million, Shaw finally lowered his paddle after another frantic phone consultation.
Sweat beaded his upper lip despite the room's careful climate control.
He knew what opposing me meant, even in this seemingly genteel setting.
The Vega family had miscalculated yet again, testing boundaries they couldn't afford to challenge.
“Sold to Mr. Calloway for two million, six hundred thousand pounds!” The auctioneer's gavel fell like an executioner's axe. I permitted myself a small smile as Shaw hurriedly exited the gallery, already dialling his phone with shaking fingers.
By morning, everyone would understand the night's interconnected messages. The Calloways take what they want, whether art or lives. Opposing us in either arena carried the same deadly consequences.