: Chapter 15

Little by little, she’s sinking into me.

Curiosity is a double-edged sword. To an idiot, it can seem like a beautiful thing. To an intelligent individual, a dangerous temptation. It has the ability to make you question your thoughts, your decisions. Exploring the unknown has someone of her intelligence calculating her choices, her mind fighting her body in a deadly game of tug-of-war. There’s no denying what that curvaceous body is telling me. It’s practically begging for that sweet release, pleading with me to give her the voice she’s always needed. The reason to let go.

Briony Strait will break for me.

But only after I break the system that wants her gone.

“Ah, yes, Aero. Send him in,” I hear my boss, Alastor Abbott, talking to his assistant as I barge into the office. “Aero.”

His bushy brows raise when I push past the voluptuous woman, tossing a small blue and white cooler onto his desk atop his mess of papers. He gazes nervously at the blood-stained cooler; the smears running across the white plastic top and handle. He slowly brings his focus up to me.

“What’s this?” he asks as his dick-sucking assistant slowly backs out of the room.

“He chose not to cooperate.”

Alastor’s eyes crinkle with concern as he stares at the cooler. He knows the price of not cooperating. Limbs and digits in place of commas.

“Well.” He clicks his tongue, letting out a nervous sigh. “That’s that I guess.”

“He also wanted you to know that Clive McGregor isn’t withdrawing from the election.” I state casually, walking towards his office bar and grabbing myself the bottle of whiskey from the glass counter.

I pop it open, pouring myself a glass. Taking a drink with one hand, I hold the bottle by the neck with the other.

“That fucker,” he murmurs, rolling his hand into a fist on his desk. “Where are you at with the girl? I need Cal’s support now more than ever.”

The girl. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, gritting my teeth as I try my hardest not to grab this man by the back of the neck and break his face into the wood of his desk.

“If his dumbass son would stop trying to prove himself to his father, I’d have had it done already,” I lie.

If I wanted her dead, she’d have been rotting six feet under as we speak. It’s as simple as that.

“Not good enough. Krista!” he calls out the door for his assistant. My eyes narrow as I hear the footsteps coming down the hall. She pops her head inside the door. “Yes, Mr. Abbott?” “Krista, get Cal Westwood on the phone for me, would ya?”

I take the empty glass in my hand and chuck it at the wall next to Krista’s head. The glass shatters behind her as she screams out, cowering into herself.

“Aero!” Alastor scolds.

I turn, storming back towards him and making my way around his desk. I grip his neck, lifting him from his chair to throw his weight against the wall. He stumbles backwards, falling against it as picture frames fall from their hooks, crashing to the floor. I squeeze my fingers tightly, cutting off his air supply.

“You best not get involved in my business, Al,” I growl, my tone cracked. “Things can get real messy when too many hands are involved.”

My eyes peer towards the cooler on his desk and his follow. I look back at Al with raised brows and a lopsided grin, living off of his fear.

“Have I ever let you down, Al? Have I ever actually dropped the ball when it came to following through with our arrangements?”

He shakes his head quickly, his eyes bulging as the fat beneath his chin trembles above my grasp.

“Well, then I’d advise you to let the man who dirties his hands for you continue along with his work.”

Nodding while gurgling noises echo throughout the room, he falls forward when I release his neck, his hands stabilizing him against the desk as he gasps for air.

I wink at his assistant, whose face is now wet with tears as I walk towards the door, leaving.

“W-wait!” Alastor calls out, still wheezing from the chokehold.

Pausing with my hand on the door frame, I turn to face him.

“Aren’t you going to…” He points to the cooler. “What am I supposed to do with…”

He’s flustered. Terrified. Scared. Everything that I can’t be in order to do what I do. He wants to intervene and play hitman for a day? I’ll let him clean up his own mess for once. This man couldn’t handle a day on the streets if he tried. These people, they’re greasy, greedy, and money-hungry. More than ready to throw some money for crimes they think can’t touch them. I’m the gloves covering his filthy fucking hands, but he’s the one with dirt beneath his nails.

“Figure it the fuck out,” I say, before turning to leave.