Page 9 of Trained In Sin

Seb

The basement beneath Syren is soundproof. I had it specially installed when I bought the building, thick concrete walls, reinforced steel door, no windows. What happens down here, stays down here. Tonight, that's exactly what I need.

Marcus sits tied to a chair in the centre of the room, his wrists secured behind his back with zip ties, ankles fastened to the chair legs. He's been conscious for about ten minutes now, long enough for the reality of his situation to sink in. The fear in his eyes tells me he knows why he's here.

I've known this moment was coming for weeks.

The missing shipments, the compromised meetings, the way Dawson seemed to anticipate my every move.

Tommy Dawson. That piece of shit thinks he can worm his way into my territory just because he's got backing from some Glasgow outfit.

We have history, Dawson and I. Seven years ago, we were business partners of sorts.

Both of us hungry, both of us ruthless, carving out our respective corners of London.

The arrangement worked until he got greedy and attempted to take what was mine.

He'd tried to muscle in on my Soho operations back then, thinking I was too young, too inexperienced to retaliate properly.

I'd proven him wrong in spectacular fashion, driving him back to the East End with his tail between his legs.

But Tommy Dawson isn't the type to forgive and forget.

He's been scheming ever since, waiting for his moment to strike back .

Now he thinks he's ready to challenge me again. The audacity of it sends anger coursing through my veins.

"Marcus," I say, circling him. "Three years you've worked for me. Three years of loyalty, I thought." I stop behind his chair, placing my hands on his shoulders. He flinches at the contact. "Do you know what loyalty means to me, Marcus?"

He tries to turn his head to look at me, but I keep my grip firm. "It means everything. In a world where everyone's looking for an angle, where everyone's ready to sell you out for the right price, loyalty is one of the last things men like me rely on."

I release him and continue my circuit around the chair. The ritual of it centres me, helps me focus on what needs to be done rather than the rage threatening to consume me.

"My father taught me that lesson early," I continue, my voice steady despite the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.

"Not through words, mind you. Through fists.

Through abandonment. Through the very special kind of betrayal that only family can deliver.

" I pause in front of Marcus again. "But I suppose that's neither here nor there. "

"Seb, I can explain…." he begins, but I hold up a hand.

"No explanations. Not yet." I stop in front of him, noting how he flinches when I lean down to meet his eyes. "You see, betrayal is something I take very personally. It reminds me of things I'd rather forget. People I'd rather forget."

The truth is, Marcus's betrayal cuts deeper than it should.

I handpicked him three years ago, saw potential in a young man desperate to prove himself.

I gave him opportunities, trusted him with sensitive information, treated him better than most of my employees.

In return, he's been feeding information to Tommy Dawson.

It's a pattern I've seen before. Trust freely given, then used as a weapon against me. My mother did it first, walking out on me when I was three, leaving me with a man who saw me as nothing more than a burden and a target for his frustrations. Then school friends who told stories about my home life to teachers for attention. Then business partners who thought they could take advantage of my youth and ambition. I should’ve seen it coming. I blame myself more than Marcus. Still, I can’t be seen as a fool and Marcus does need to be held accountable for his part in this.

Each betrayal taught me something valuable about human nature. About how easily people justify their treachery. About how the promise of easy money can override years of loyalty. It drove home the one truth I’ve carried for years. Everyone has a price.

I move to the metal table against the wall, where I've laid out various tools. Simple implements, really. Pliers. A knife. Nothing fancy. Effectiveness over theatrics.

"Tommy Dawson's been getting information about my shipments, my security protocols, my business meetings." I pick up the pliers, testing their grip. The weight of them feels right in my hand. Solid, dependable. Tools have never betrayed me. Tools don’t lie. They’re as effective as the person who yields them. And I’m precise.

"Information that could only come from someone on the inside. Someone I trusted."

Marcus's breathing quickens. "Seb, please, let me…."

"Dawson thinks he's clever," I continue, ignoring his plea.

"Thinks he can use my own people against me.

I tried to teach him that seven years ago.

Clearly, the lesson didn't take." I can still remember the satisfaction of watching his operations crumble, his men scatter, his reputation shatter.

"Perhaps I was too merciful back then. I’ve certainly let the ball drop recently, if you genuinely thought you could pull this off without getting caught.

Never mind. He may not learn from his lessons, but I do. "

The thing about Tommy Dawson is that he's never understood subtlety.

Where I build carefully, strategically, he smashes through obstacles like a bull.

Where I incite loyalty through respect and fear in equal measure, he rules through intimidation alone.

It's made him powerful in the short term, but it's also made him sloppy. Hiring my people to spy on me is exactly the kind of stupid move I should have expected from him. The fact that one of my staff betrayed me, doesn’t surprise me. The fact that it was Marcus, does.

"The thing is, Marcus, trust is a rare commodity in my world. When someone breaks it..." I turn back to him, pliers in hand. "They end up broken. There have to be consequences."

I position the pliers around his fingernail.

"Wait, Seb, wait!" Marcus struggles against his restraints. "I needed the money! My dad's care home fees, they're bleeding me dry, and…."

The pliers close. Marcus's scream echoes off the concrete walls as the nail separates from the flesh beneath. Blood wells immediately, and I reach for the white cloth on the table, wiping the crimson from the metal tools.

"Your father's care home bills don't excuse selling me out to Dawson. You could have come to me with financial problems, I would have helped. I’m not a monster.” The pliers in my hand prove otherwise. “Instead, you chose betrayal."

Blood drips from Marcus's finger onto the concrete floor. The sound calms me. His face is pale, slick with sweat.

"Please," he gasps. "I'll do anything. I'll make it right."

"I’m so glad to hear you say that. Of course you will. But first, we finish what we started."

The pain helps me think clearly. Not Marcus's pain, that's just a tool, but the emotional pain that's been gnawing at me since last night.

Since I sat in that restaurant, alone, while Saphy chose her mundane little life over dinner with me.

Since I watched her kiss that pathetic excuse for a man in her doorway.

I work methodically, removing three more nails from his left hand.

Each time, Marcus screams. Each time, I wipe the blood away with deliberate care.

The cloth grows increasingly stained, but I prefer order even in chaos.

It's one of the few things that separates me from animals like Dawson.

I don't take pleasure in unnecessary suffering.

This isn't about sadism. Mostly. It's about sending a message.

About maintaining the natural order of things.

By the fourth fingernail, something shifts in my perception.

Hearing Marcus beg and plead. The weakness he’s showing.

Suddenly the man in front of me blurs, and for a moment, I see someone else.

Brown hair instead of black. Glasses instead of contacts.

The bland, unremarkable face that kissed Saphy in her doorway.

"You think you deserve her," I murmur, moving to Marcus's right hand. "You think your ordinary little life, your ordinary little job, makes you worthy of touching her. "

Marcus stares at me, confusion mixing with pain. "Seb, what are you…."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP” I shout, spittle flying from my mouth.

I run my hands through my hair, completely messing the slick clean style I wear daily.

The lines are blurring, which should concern me but somehow doesn't. "Three years of touching her.

Eating with her. Sharing her bed." I grab his fingers and stare Damon in the face.

“Why do you think you can have what is mine?” I almost plead.

The crack of breaking bone revibrates off of the walls.

I've snapped his ring finger backward, the joint bending at an unnatural angle.

He screams again, and the sound satisfies something dark in my chest. Something that's been building since the moment I saw Damon Phillips's hands on what belongs to me.

Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?

Possession. Ownership. The fundamental truth that some people are meant to have power and others are meant to submit to it.

Marcus submitted to Dawson's money, chose betrayal over loyalty.

Saphy submits to Damon's safe mediocrity, choosing comfort over passion.

Both choices represent the same flaw in human nature, the inability to recognise true strength when it's offered.

"Three years together," I continue, seeing Damon's face instead of Marcus's features. "What makes you special? What makes you better than me?” I lean and try and stare into Damons soul.