"See, we know you're lying," I drawl, rubbing my forehead and temple with my index finger and thumb. Dropping my hand to my side, I sigh roughly. "Would you like to know how?"
"I swear it. Max. Bronson. I swear-"
Bronson's boot nails Michael in the face. His head snaps backwards. Eyes closed. Mouth agape. And now he's unconscious and swaying on the hook as if he's already dead.
"Fucksake, Bronson," I mutter.
"I don’t like it when they say our names," he states plainly, grabbing another bucket of icy water and splashing its contents over Michael.
I completely agree. Hearing anyone say my brother's names or Butch's or - especially - Cassidy's, pisses me right off.
As Michael stirs again, I signal Armad. He moves in, slicing him with quick trained precision, parting his flesh from bicep to wrist. It's a relatively shallow incision. Blood trickles down, painting the grate, but it’s not enough to bleed him dry. Michael's eyes snap open. As blood and pressure builds within his cranium, he spits and drools and reddens.
He lets out a long, half-incoherent moan. "Fuck."
"Do you know how the butcherbird got its name?" Bronson asks with a smooth and steady voice.
Fucksake, not this butcherbird crap again.
"Once they spear their prey with their massive knife-like beaks, they then impale them on thorns, fences, any place they will hang, leaving them with their guts exposed to rot in the sun."
A rumbled sigh draws everyone's attention to me. Bored of this shit already, I jump straight to the point. "Yesterday, while I was balls deep inside your wife's arse, I saw the prettiest pink diamonds hanging from her ears. And I'd know our product anywhere."
"Stay away from Jess!" He chokes out the words.
She may be a loyal lady, I wouldn't know. I've never spoken to her. One of my men followed her and noticed the earrings. It just makes me chuckle to think he may believe that I was rearranging her guts while he was stealing from us.
"Where are our diamonds?" I snap.
Bronson kneels in Michael's blood and knots his hair between his fingers. Michael can finally see a face, but by the growing whites of his eyes, perhaps he wishes he couldn't. Bron strokes his slick hair and it makes me sick. "We're not threatening you today, mate. I want to make that crystal clear. You will be leaving this freezer in bags," Bron states. "But my brother has a massive cock, and your wife won't like the way he uses it on her tonight if you don't tell us where our diamonds are."
Even though it's bullshit - I'd never hurt an innocent woman - Michael seems to believe I would. He begins to vibrate with panic. For his life. For hers.
Clearing my throat, I say, "We want the location and the names of the people involved." I look over at a metal rack coated in icicles in a corner of the freezer. Ice used to remind me of my childhood. Of soaking in a half-frozen bathtub with Bronson to lessen the bruises our mother had kindly left. But now it reminds me of my little ballerina - Cassidy. And that's a name I can't let infiltrate my conscious at this moment. Forcing her aside and growing quickly impatient, I scowl at Michael. "Ready to share?"
As Michael begins to talk - really share - I stare at the ice forming around me.
"But people like you have people like me that love them."
For a second those words slip into my consciousness - Cassidy's sweet naive words. And there is truth in what she said that night, but she doesn't understand the depravities in this world. And he is not a good person. And fuck, I'm letting her in again. Well, too bad, it's done. This is nothing personal. This is business. Still, for reasons I can’t explain, I turn towards the door and push the latch open, moving out into the process area.
Loosening my tie and collar, I exhale loudly. Plastic curtains sway in front of me, leading into the shop front. I frown at them as I roll up my sleeves. This room smells like formaldehyde and I fucking hate that smell. It lingers.
Rubbing the coarse stubble on my jaw with my palm, I think about how I left Cassidy alone in my bed again. I growl at my wandering thoughts.
Carter is just outside our room - my room. Even though I trust that man - I do fucking trust that man - I still want to get back there. Back to her world. Whenever I'm with her, I end up in her world.
I'm in foreign territory with her. All I know is that I'd kill for her. That I want her sweet little body sprawled out above my sheets when I come home. And - of course - that being with her is enough to make me hate myself. For all the parts of me she hasn't seen. Doesn't want to. If she had, she wouldn't be in my bed right now and she wouldn’t have that bruise under her eye because she would have high tailed it at the first sign of danger.
Xander is suddenly in the processing room with me, having come in from the store front, a look of worry on his young face. And I realise now just how dangerous my affections for her are. How easily the thought of her in the wrong moment could get me killed - or worse - get one of my brothers killed.
"What is it?" I ask, meeting him halfway.
"We have company, Max," he says, a slight shake to his voice.
Quickly moving past him, I pull back the plastic curtains and stare across the shop, through the glass windows, at an unmarked car with two men inside.
Fucking Jacks.
"What do we do?" Xan asks.
Fucking Xander.
Clearing my throat, I wander past him and into the shop front. I press my back to the counter and cross my
