SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY

The white supremacists hadn't predicted my arrival. They sat inside the sanctuary of their protective four walls, imbibing harsh alcohol and snorting cocaine like it was to be extinct.

Held up behind the brass-railed bar, one male noted my arrival and blew the whistle, calling upon the Nazi's arrogant leadership.

Overweight, bald, pierced and inked, Mortiz regarded Brad with a quizzical squint, recollecting a time when my right-hand man checked in for solitude and a bottle of Blue Label. It came as no surprise to me when Moritz addressed me formally and with the utmost respect, understanding in his soulless eyes. He offered me a firm handshake and exquisite tasting malt, cleared a corner table, and joined me for an overdue conversation.

Moritz expressed veneration. He didn't want hostility or warring between the white supremacist hate group and the syndicate. In actuality, the foolish man wished for amalgamation.

I laughed, insulting his original proposal.

Nathaniel Alzaim is biracial. He's from Trinidadian origin and deserves paramount respect, irrelevant to his skin colour.

He's also my brother. I love him.

Moritz warranted a bullet between the eyes for such nonsensical disrespect.

My impromptu decision to cut our meeting short kindled the awareness of his men. The second Moritz's brain shattered and scattered up the walls, cacophonous upheaval commenced.

Brad fought alongside me until the final body dropped to the ground.

I clenched the knife handle, blood dripping down my fingers. Encircled by strewn dead bodies, a gruesome bloodbath, I wiped the blade over my trousers, rolled up my shirt sleeves and ambled around the bar. On the floor, hiding, a middle-aged man cowered behind trembling hands. I voiced commands, ordered him to stand, removed three digits and whistled tunes while he shrieked and pleaded for compassion.

The coward always squeals truths.

Stealing his final breath, I extracted his heart and burnt the building to the ground.

I shan't be getting any sleep tonight.

***

Showered and changed into a new suit, I stand in the belly of Club 11's alleyway, awaiting Nate's arrival. Brad, bored and cold, complains religiously under his breath. "Relax," I sighed, lighting a cigarette. "He'll be here."

"Nate's taking the fucking piss. It's cold and bitter." He fixed his crotch. "I swear, my balls have shrivelled up to the back of my ass."

I exhaled a ribbon of smoke to the night sky, propping my foot to the wall behind me.

He tugs on a grey beanie hat, spots Cherry, grunting his disapproval. "Ah, fucking Christ." His lip ticked in disgust. "Get rid of her."

"Gentlemen." Her sultry voice raked my flesh, the heels of her six-inch heels alternately clicking on the floor. She bestowed me a warm, fond smile, but the adoration in her crystal blue eyes heightened for the man to my right. "Brad." She snuggled into her faux fur coat. "You ain't been around lately. Is the Boss working you too hard?"

That's code for "Are you fucking someone else?"

"I have a life outside of the whore house, Cher." He eyed her with haughty disdain. "And better pussy."

Pretending not to eavesdrop, I stifled a wince. I have never claimed to be a gentleman. I am far from chivalrous, but his delivery can be brutal.

Everyone's gone to town on Cherry, including me. It's Brad, though. He's the end goal. The guy she'd choose if he were willing. Senseless, I thought, tossing my cigarette to the floor, snubbing it under my shoe. Brad's never going to settle down, not after everything he's endured. She holds out for him, though, in the hope he'll reciprocate such affections—pointless.