Chapter 15: Bloodied Vows
Angelo had brought him the tapes, said they found them after the raid. The men present averted their eyes as Dayne paced before a wall of screens, one of them playing a video showing Robert’s torture of Zariah at the compound. The sick fuck Robert, his heinous acts against her, played out in silent, horrific clarity. Dayne watched the one with Matthew, the same snake fucker who was still employed at his company. Matthew was one of the only ones of Robert’s men left, and Dayne had a lot of rage to release. By the late afternoon, he set the plan in motion—the invite for the “accountant training retreat” already sent to Matthew’s inbox.
By the late afternoon, he set the plan in motion—the invite for the “accountant training retreat” already sent to Matthew’s inbox.
Matthew couldn’t believe his luck. Word on this street was that Robert Ellis, was dead. He hadn't heard from him or seen him. That was a relief as he hated the bastard, but he was indebted to him. Life was too good right now, and the invite that he just received about the accountant retreat was chef’s kiss.
He clicked “Accept” on the retreat invitation with a smug tap of his finger, already imagining the premium open bar. Across the city, in the silent war room, Dayne’s phone screen glowed with the automated confirmation. A cold, mirthless smile cut across his face as he read the notification. “Good,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the fresh scar on his knuckles. “Now we can begin.”
Three days later, Matthew arrived after a grueling work week, checking into the sleek downtown hotel for the weekend retreat with a genuine smile. Man, did his company know how to treat its workers, he thought, sipping the complimentary champagne in his room with a satisfied sigh. The itinerary directed him to an intimate Italian restaurant downtown that evening, which was surprisingly, pleasingly empty of other corporate drones. A beautiful woman with dark, knowing eyes glided over to take his order, her smile not quite reaching her gaze. "Welcome, Mr. Carter," she said, her voice a smooth alto that somehow chilled the air around them.
“Can I offer you a drink to start, sir?” Jeanette asked, her smile never reaching her eyes as she placed a crystal tumbler of amber bourbon before him. “On the house,” she purred, the words practiced and smooth, “it’s to die for.” Matthew accepted with a nod, taking a long, appreciative swallow of the expensive liquid, unaware of the four pairs of eyes watching him from the silent war room screens. “She practiced that line, ya know,” Angelo muttered to Alex, Dayne, and Leo as they watched the live feed, the tension in the room thickening with every second. Dayne didn’t smile, his emerald gaze fixed on the monitor as Matthew drained the glass, his own knuckles white around the edge of the mahogany table.
. Matthew scrolled on his phone for a while as he waited for his food, a sluggish fog seeping into his limbs from the drugged bourbon. Damn, he was getting tired, so tired that he was seeing double, so he put his phone down and called for the waitress with a thick tongue. "My food," he slurred, and the woman nodded curtly, returning moments later with a silver cloche she placed before him with a soft thud. She brings him his food which is covered, fancy he thought, and as he pulled back the lid, his eyes almost bulged out of his head.
A hand. One adorned with a ring he knew all too well. Robert’s. He froze, looking at his plate, a figure dressed in all black with their sleeves rolled up slid into the booth seat across from him. Dayne. “You’ve been sampling the merchandise, I see,” Dayne said, his voice a quiet blade in the empty restaurant. Matthew could only stare, his drugged mind swimming in a vortex of pure, undiluted terror.
Matthew looked toward the door, and saw two men dressed in black standing in front of it, their postures immovable. Dayne gave him a look that was all cold, patient intelligence and said, “Go ahead and humor me, try to stand up.” The realization dawned on Matthew that he had been drugged, a thick, paralyzing poison in his veins turning his bones to liquid cement. Then Dayne received an order of bread with butter from the waitress, and as he started to eat it, he calmly spoke to Matthew. “You held the camera,” Dayne said, chewing slowly, his voice devoid of all emotion.
“You joined my company as a snake feeding your friend there,” Dayne continued, pointing a butter knife toward Robert’s severed hand on the plate, “information.” He took another slow bite of bread, his eyes locked on Matthew’s terror. “You held the camera, raped her, and hated her because she was the one thing he valued more than you.” Dayne swallowed, his voice dropping to a conversational whisper. “Robert didn’t know that you were gay, and you hated that he preferred her to fucking you.”
Dayne made sure to speak loudly this time, his voice cutting through the restaurant's stillness. "It’s the new millennium, nobody cares if you like to fuck men, Matthew!" Matthew’s face crumpled, a wet sheen of shame and fear glazing his eyes. "But Zee, my unborn, they paid the price and so shall you," Dayne said, chewing slowly, his voice devoid of all emotion. Matthew’s head hit the table with a sickening crack, and it was lights out. Shortly after, his men hauled Matthew out of the seat and took him into the basement of the restaurant, the butcher's room.
Shortly after, his men hauled Matthew out of the seat and took him into the basement of the restaurant, the butcher's room. The chemical sting of bleach and the copper scent of old blood hit Matthew’s senses as he groaned back to consciousness, his vision swimming into focus on the rust-stained drain in the concrete floor beneath his chair. A heavy chain, cold and unforgiving, was padlocked around his chest, securing him to the steel frame. Dayne watched from a shadowed corner, rolling a polished meat cleaver slowly in his hand. “You filmed her,” Dayne said, his voice flat, as he stepped into the light and let the blade’s edge catch the overhead bulb, “so we’ll start with what you used to hold the camera.”
Dayne’s free hand shot out and clamped around Matthew’s right wrist, slamming it palm-down onto the cold steel table with a force that made bones groan. The cleaver hovered, catching the light, before Dayne brought the thick spine of the blade down on Matthew’s knuckles in a sharp, crushing blow. A wet snap echoed in the tiled room, followed by Matthew’s scream, a high-pitched shriek that dissolved into choked sobs as he stared at his mangled, useless fingers. “That’s for pressing record,” Dayne muttered, his voice devoid of pity, as he watched the fingers swell and purple. He raised the cleaver again, its edge glinting, aiming for the joint at the wrist.
The cleaver fell in a short, efficient arc, biting deep into the joint with a wet crunch of tendon and bone. Matthew’s body convulsed against the chains, a guttural, shattered sound tearing from his throat as he stared, disbelieving, at the separation. “That’s for every second you watched,” Dayne said, tossing the severed hand toward the drain. He watched the blood pulse onto the steel table in thick, rhythmic spurts, the metallic scent flooding the cold room. HE SCREAMS.
The scream echoed against the tiled walls, a fading, wet sound swallowed by the restaurant’s foundation. Outside, Zariah waddled toward the ornate door, her pregnant belly leading the way through the cold, midnight air. The only sound was the scuff of her shoes on concrete as she pushed the heavy door open, stepping into an eerie, hollow quiet. A woman with dark, assessing eyes materialized from the shadows near the host stand, a practiced smile on her lips. Zee didn’t return it, her voice low and shaking as she demanded, “Where the fuck is Dayne?”
Jeanette laughed; she liked the woman already. "You must be Zariah," she stated. "I am," she retorted. Jeanette told Zee that she probably shouldn't be there, but she did not care, shrugging her shoulders before leading her to a stairway. She warned Zariah she may not like what she saw.
The heavy door shut behind her with a final, echoing thud, sealing her into the sterile, stinking quiet of the butcher’s room. Her gaze swept past the dark stains on the concrete floor, past the gleam of steel tools, and landed on Matthew’s contorted face, his mouth still frozen in a silent, perpetual scream beside his severed hand. Then she saw Dayne, the cleaver glinting in his grip, his emerald eyes wide with a shock that mirrored the visceral lurch in her own stomach. “Dayne,” she breathed, the word barely a whisper, yet it sliced through the thick silence like the blade he held. “What have you done?”
Dayne turned, and the man she saw looked possessed, dark. He was terrifying, sexy even. His face melted into instant panic as he approached her, the cleaver clattering to the floor. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice raw, “I know what it looks like, but I’m not a monster.” He spoke like he was terrified of her rejection. She gently walked over to Matthew to get a better look at what Dayne had done.
She stared at the ruin of Matthew’s hand, the stark reality of the violence cooling her own rage into something numb. Then she turned her attention away from Matthew, the tears coming fast and hot as she faced Dayne. “You didn’t tell me you’d be out so late,” she sobbed, her voice cracking with a sudden, domestic hurt that felt absurd in the bloody room, “and I’m so hungry, you could’ve brought me pasta and bread from here, you know this is my favorite place.” Matthew looked bewildered, his pain-fogged brain struggling to process her words. “The bitch is crazy too!” Matthew shouted, a raw, disbelieving laugh breaking through his own agony.
Dayne’s hand shot out, clamping over Matthew’s mouth and cutting the laugh into a muffled gurgle. Zariah didn’t even flinch, her tear-filled eyes fixed only on Dayne’s face as she stepped over the spreading blood puddle. “You promised me carbonara,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she placed a trembling hand on his blood-splattered chest. “You promised no more secrets in the dark.” He stared down at her, his rage dissolving into a shame so profound it left him wordless, his other hand rising to cradle her face.
Dayne's bloodied hand, stark against her cheek, pulled her into a deep, desperate kiss that tasted of copper and salt. "I'll take care of that hungry pussy when I get home," he growled against her lips, the promise filthy and tender all at once. From his chair, Matthew wheezed, "You're both fucking crazy," his voice ragged with pain and disbelief. She was carrying his child and if she wanted pasta, he should have had it for her, Dayne thought—his voice breaking as he called for Jeanette. He adjusted the hard line of his cock straining against his trousers and grabbed the knife Angelo handed him as Jeanette led Zee back upstairs.
He turned back to Matthew, the blade’s edge catching the low light. “You filmed her scream,” Dayne stated, his voice detached and cold. He placed the knife against the side of Matthew’s throat, feeling the frantic jump of the man’s pulse beneath the steel. “This is for the sound.” The cut was swift, deep, and final, a slick warmth coating Dayne’s hand as the handle grew slippery.
Matthew gargled on his own blood, still clinging on for dear life. Dayne leaned close, his lips almost brushing the man’s ear, and whispered a final, chilling promise in rapid-fire Italian before nodding to his siblings and walking away upstairs. Angelo and Alex flipped a coin, playing around like brothers would. “In case you’re wondering what he said,” Angelo spoke to Matthew, “he said see you in hell, motherfucker.” “Heads!” Alex exclaimed excitedly, then took the safety off his 9mm and aimed it at Matthew’s head.
The gunshot cracked, a deafening explosion that rebounded off the sterile tiles.
Matthew’s head jerked back, a dark spray erupting from the exit wound as his body sagged against the chains.
The echoes hammered through the room, lingering in the ringing silence left behind.
Alex lowered the smoking pistol, his casual smirk untouched by the gore now sliding down the wall.
Upstairs, the sudden, muffled thunder made Zariah flinch against Dayne’s chest, her fingers digging into his shirt.
Upstairs, the sudden, muffled thunder made Zariah flinch against Dayne’s chest, her fingers digging into his shirt. “I still don’t like loud noises,” she whispered against the bloody cotton, her voice small. She looked up at him, her eyes clearing as she excitedly told him that the woman she met, Angelo’s friend Jeanette, was cool, and that they were going to plan a spa day. She then excitedly told him about the carbonara the chef had just boxed up for her, her words tumbling out in a cheerful, breathless stream. He looked down at her, his own hands still trembling with adrenaline, and said,
He looked down at her, his own hands still trembling with adrenaline, and said, "You seem too calm for someone who just witnessed what you had."
She studied his face, her fingers tracing the rigid line of his jaw. "I saw what he filmed," she said, her voice suddenly quiet and flat as the concrete floor beneath them. “What they did to me.”
He stared at her, the metallic scent of Matthew’s blood still clinging to his skin as her question hung between them. “Am I a bad person for not feeling empathy for them?” she repeated, her voice flat and detached. He laughed, a sharp, broken sound that echoed in the quiet restaurant, at the irony of her question as he was the one covered in another man’s blood. His bloody hand cupped her jaw, his thumb smearing a dark streak across her cheek as he pulled her into a desperate, claiming kiss. “Let me wash this off you,”