Page 26 of Threads That Bind Us

My breath comes heavy as I roll my shoulders out, trying to ignore the stinging pain in my left forefinger. Rookie mistake, angling the blow the way I did, catching my hand like that. It’s a testament to how distracted I am.

It’s unfortunate that my hands will look like this, freshly bruised and broken, when I get to the hospital. Normally, I prefer blades. The precision and control are more comfortable. But there has been something particularly fulfilling about killing those that played a part in my mother’s harm with my bare hands.

A soft sob comes from the man tied to a chair in front of me, and I refocus. He’s held out longer than I thought he would, especially considering I don’t need anything from him. This isn’t information extraction, it’s revenge.

I’ll admit, I’m impressed by his resolve. He had to know when he woke up here that he was going to die, had to realize what he was paying penance for. He could have succumbed to the encompassing darkness almost an hour ago, let himself slipinto unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay lucid. Perhaps it’s pride, or dedication to his mission. Both of which I can respect.

But, as they always do, he’s beginning to break.

I press my fingers under his chin, where shattered bone shifts under my touch. An involuntary cry slips from him.

“Aleksander, I want to thank you for this gift,” I say, forcing his gaze to meet mine. His face is so battered that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him, and I don’t know if he can truly see me. “It is rare to find a traitor who can withstand this much torture. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

I think the look he gives me is supposed to be a snarl, but it’s weak. He’s almost there.

They always break. They always submit.

It’s a trial-and-error thing, learning how to bring someone beyond their limits without killing them. When I was a teenager, my mother would let me watch her work, talking through the decisions she made based on the subject’s heart rate, response to blows, reaction to cuts. She’d have me slice into my own thighs to learn where arteries and muscles were, noting every flinch of pain as a failure. I studied other’s weaknesses, not only to exploit them, but to ensure I didn’t have them myself.

Aleksander’s head hangs down when I let go. Another blow across the face, but he can only groan. One more, and he can barely turn his face back toward me. I shake out my hand.

“Turning on the Costas, who have supported you and your family for generations, is the height of cowardice and shame. What would your daughters think about their father if they could see him like this?”

And that’s how I know how far gone he is. He doesn’t react. Three daughters, and he doesn’t lift his head to ask if I’ve gone after them too.

Pathetic.

“No, please don’t beg,” I say, my voice heavy with disgust as I circle him. “The Costas do not punish children for the sins of their parents. They will remain safe, if not cut off from the comforts they experienced under our protection.”

He doesn’t move—doesn’t say anything.

I think about prolonging this, if only for my own personal retribution. He may have only played a small part in the ploy that nearly killed my mother, but I’ve had little time to seek out the larger actors. Aleksander is getting a disproportionate burden of my vengeance.

But before I can land another blow, a rap comes at the door. There’s only one person it could be, so I call for Zane to come in.

“We’ve got to meet the girls in two hours,” he reminds me, leaning against the door frame.

Zane may mainly act as my driver, but he’s no stranger to the activities that happen in this room, so he barely glances at the man in the chair.

“I’ll finish this, thank you Zane,” I say, and as he closes the door behind him, I grab my hunting knife off the table on the other side of the room.

“Lucky for you, I don’t have the time to make you feel all the pain you deserve.” I press the knife against the side of his throat and slice, severing his carotid. “I have somewhere much more important to be.”

After I shower and change, I lock the basement behind me and meet Zane in the foyer of the farmhouse.

“Text Renee and Nickolas and have them clean this up before the end of the day.”

Zane nods and pulls his phone out as I slip into the back seat of the sedan. The garage door rolls up, and we slowly make our way past the acres of central Virginia farmlandbelonging to the Costas, home to hundreds upon hundreds of pigs.

Useful animals, in my line of work. Hungry, thorough, and undiscerning with their meals.

The dirt road leads into a forest of red maples, and Zane takes the turns smoothly as I stare at my phone, seeing nothing.

I know I’m an obsessive person. When I saw my mother burned in that bed, the need to plan our retribution overwhelmed me. I fixated on the path that would ready me to take over my inherited responsibilities.

Now, I feel myself obsessing over Gwen. Maybe it’s natural, considering the way the universe seemed insistent on pushing us together. But what I didn’t expect was wanting to know more than just how she would affect me and my family. I just beat a man near to death, and all I could think while I was doing it was,I wonder what Gwen is doing right now.

I thought this persistent tug toward her would be relieved once she agreed to my proposal. And why wouldn’t it? I needed someone to play a part, to act as a piece in a larger puzzle, and she fulfilled that. Box checked.