Page 25 of Under Your Scars

At this point, I’ll just have to go after Valenti later. I move silently through the rafters above their heads, and I land with a heavy thud directly behind the unsuspecting bartender. Before she has a chance to turn and scream, I grab her from behind in a chokehold and keep her steady until she falls unconscious.

Valenti’s friends are all so drunk they’re falling over themselves trying to get away from me. One of them pulls out a cell phone and I throw a knife at his hand with such precision that the blade goes straight through the screen. The way they scramble away from me fills me with extreme satisfaction.

I like taking my time with my victims. I enjoy the hunt just as much as I enjoy watching the life leave their eyes after I listen to them beg me for mercy.

I love making them feel helpless, like I felt all those years ago.

Two of Valenti’s men make a break for the elevator. I let them get close enough to press the button, allowing them to bask in the illusion of relief, thinking they’ll escape me, and then I send a bullet right through the meat of their thighs. They fall to the ground with cries of pain, and I growl in satisfaction at the sound.

One of them tries to sneak behind me with a tiny pocketknife. I block his swing with my forearm and then crack my fist against the center of his face. His nose breaks and blood gushes over his lips and chin. I languidly pull the pocketknife from his grasp and shove it into his gut and twist it, and then, just because I feel like it, I slice off his ear, too. He drops, moaning in pain and writhing on the ground like a grub worm.

The two remaining men both have their guns up pointed at me. If I didn’t have a mask over my face, they’d see a wicked smirk painting my teeth. I take one heavy step forward.

“Stay the fuck back!” They back up against the wall behind them as I stalk towards my prey. “I’m warning you!”

I let out a dark laugh and make my steps even slower. The man keeps spewing miniscule threats as I get closer, and he finally shoots me. The bullet lands dead over my heart, crumples against my chest, and falls with a clink to the floor.

Can’t remember the last time someone had the balls to shoot me. Respect.

The clothes I wear when I don this mask look completely normal. A black moisture-absorbent shirt, black tactical pants, and my zip-up hoodie with the sleeves cut off. The material that makes up my outfit is a special triple-weave Kevlar that I designed myself. I’ve made thousands of individual scales from the Kevlar, with thin plates of titanium woven into the fabric. The scales are doubled up on the most vulnerable parts of me. My heart. My spine. My dick. All the important things. The titanium/Kevlar weave protects me without weighing me down as much as steel would, and the scales allow the material to hug my body, keeping me agile and comfortable.

There’s no such thing as bulletproof. Bullet resistant is a much more accurate term, but bulletproof sounds a lot fucking cooler, and I’m as close to bulletproof as anyone can get.

Combine that with my six-five stature, a body built like a tank, and a little bit of adrenaline ordered on the dark web, and I’m practically unstoppable.

The goon continues to empty his clip into my torso instead of using his fucking brain and aiming for my face or my exposed arms—somewhere that I’m vulnerable. He stares at me in shock when the bullets do nothing but make me suck in a sharp breath.

This is my favorite part. The part where they realize their fate is sealed with red duct tape, and I’ll be the last fucking thing they see on this earth.

I raise my own pistol and send a bullet through both of his kneecaps, and he lands with a thud on the floor. His friend, the last man standing, drops his gun and holds his hands up in surrender. Smart man. I’ll kill him last for having a few working brain cells.

Valenti’s men squirm around in bloody heaps around the floor, groaning. I move some chairs from a table to my left and put them all in a line facing the elevator, so that when Valenti comes back, the first thing he’ll see is his dead friends.

One by one, I secure them to their chairs by their wrists and ankles with zip ties. The one who surrendered pissed himself, the dark gray of his slacks gone black from the warm liquid seeping through the fabric.

I take another empty chair and place it in front of them before sitting on it backwards. I stay quiet as I reload my gun and then start flipping it in my hand. I can see it in their eyes that they’re wondering what they did to land on my shitlist.

I’ve never bothered Valenti or the Hellfire Lounge. Valenti is the East Coast’s drug trade. It all goes through him, and in the grand scheme of things, the drug trade isn’t high on my list of concerns, which is why I haven’t done anything about it.

I knew this place was shady, but it wasn’t until I met Elena that I realized something sinister went on here, hidden by the stench of alcohol and the thrum of the bass. I can’t just kill Valenti. I’ve got to destroy this place from the inside out, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left to salvage.

Taking down what I suspect is a bidding house for the skin trade is going to take a lot of meticulous planning and even more patience. I don’t have any hard evidence yet, and what I’m about to do to Valenti’s friends is going to make it that much harder to gather information.

I can’t risk waiting too long to strike, though. If there’s even the smallest fraction of a chance that Valenti plans on trafficking Elena, this planet will know the true meaning of fury and malice as I tear it apart in retaliation. What he’s done to her tonight is bad enough, and I need to come up with a plan before he puts a price on her head.

Quitting isn’t an option for her. I know that. Valenti would just send his goons to kidnap her and drag her back to this wretched place. It’s better that he thinks she doesn’t suspect anything. If he thinks she’ll run, he will chase her.

And that’s my fucking job.

Sweat drips from my brow after hauling up Valenti’s friends into chairs and strapping them down. I look up at the ceiling and take a long, deep breath.

“This is for Elena,” I whisper to myself. Even with my voice dripping in venom, her name tastes so sweet on my tongue.

I open my eyes, my glare so frightening that some of them are shaking in their seats as I look over them, one by one, deciding what form of torture they each deserve.

“Welcome to the slaughterhouse, gentlemen.”

It’s moments like this that I wish I didn’t wear a mask, because I want them to see my wicked smile. “I’m going to kill each of you. Want to know why?”