Seducing My Husband's Brother

The Old Chapel

RYAN

••••••••

"Love keeps no record of wrongs."

I'm not one to pray.

Never have been. Or at least I stopped pretending at the age of thirteen. The only reason I was in that chapel that fateful Mexican afternoon was for business. Pure business.

~~~

The chapel is an old structure with cracked walls and paintings that have thinned over the years. Its appearance stands in sharp contrast to the parish it's attached to.

Well, that tells you just what kind of place it is.

Dark. Dirty. Deceitful.

It's just a front that people use to conceal shady businesses like bribery, cash drops, document handoffs, untraceable packages... the kind of things you don't want anyone asking questions about, and I'm here for one such document today.

I step into the chapel with my coat still on, my pulse steady, my eyes already scanning the environment. The air smells like wax and old stone—clean in a way that lies. Places like this always do.

They pretend innocence while swallowing sin whole.

They promise salvation, yet snatch the only form of it you ever had.

I breathe, stopping my emotions from spiraling.

The drop should've been made an hour ago.

I move past the first row of pews, my boots silent against the floor. The outer walls of the place might have been left unattended, but they definitely made intentional moves in preserving the interior, especially the floors.

My gaze cuts through corners, catching every shadow, any slight movement. The narrow aisle that leads to the altar is empty. Confessionals to the left. Donation box near the statue. That's where the courier said he'd leave it.

Tch!

I don't trust him.

That's why I came myself.

I don't trust anyone. Not anymore.

Not after a subordinate was investigated and found guilty of shady links to the Castellanos. Bastard killed himself before we could squeeze anything from him.

Cyanide tooth.

The Reigns have a reputation—it's necessary. But that is definitely not our touch. We don't hold blades to the necks of our men. We do kill them, though, if they sell us out.

The important take-home? We let them make the choice.

Still scanning the room, I notice a mass tucked between the front rows.

Whoever it is is definitely not the courier—too small. But I push toward them anyway.

A little closer and I can confirm it's a woman, as expected.

She's kneeling.

White dress. Hands clasped in front of her, fingers intertwined. A vintage scarf covers her bowed head, her thick black hair spilling from beneath. Her eyes are shut like she actually believes someone's listening.

Like she believes someone would respond.

She doesn't fit.

Too little. Too innocent.

This part of the parish is designed to repel those who might get the bright idea to worship in it, only 'appealing' in a certain sense to those who know what actually goes on within.

My steps slow without me meaning it.

This is uncomfortable. My instincts don't like unpredictability.

Then—like she feels me standing there, watching her—her lashes flutter open, and my heart skips a f*****g bit. Why?

She turns her head slightly, and our eyes meet.

God. That beautiful brown hue!

She oozes pure energy, too pure for a place this tainted.

I speak before I think better of it.

"You shouldn't be here."

~~~

"Boss." Leon places the sheet so close to my eyes I lean away to avoid getting poked. "He's done."

"Hmm." I take the paper from him, scanning its condition more than its content.

Sluggishly, I lift my eyes to meet Marco's. "You really think I'm stupid?"

His body jerks forward as a sound that's not quite a scoff, but resembles it closely, escapes his mouth, spilling a generous amount of blood onto his cracked lips.

Eli finishes binging him and steps back.

Folding my hands, I lean against the backrest of the wooden chair. "Why would I send this blood-drenched letter to Purity?"

His head drops, his neck now unable to keep holding it up.

"Talk, Marco. Why?"

"Please."

"Wrong answer." I push myself from the tiny chair, tentatively approaching him, my pace just right to instill terror.

Once I'm hovering over him, I fist his damp hair, snapping his neck back so he's looking straight into my eyes.

I sigh, almost feeling sorry for him—almost. "Pity. Imagining those green lifeless."

"P-leas—" he struggles with his bonds but only gets more entangled.

With a shove, I withdraw my hand from his warm hair.

Leon rushes to my aid with a handkerchief, offering to wipe the blood from my fingers, but I take the white fabric from him instead.

"I can manage."

He bows, then steps back.

Marco struggles again, and at this rate his arms would probably break from his torso. Won't be the first time. Thank f**k this particular subject has seen this happen a few times before, right in this room.

"I'm sorry..."

He continues begging like the pathetic fool he is.

Done with the kerchief, I toss it aside, heading straight for the table of instruments resting not far from us. Using the leather gloves, I slowly slide them onto my hands, flexing my fingers.

He doesn't need to be told to understand what comes next.

"I'm sorry! Boss! Forgive me this once. It was a mistake."

Yeah, you shagging my woman was a mistake. I'm not disputing that fact. I'm just about to make it the worst mistake of your life.

My eyes sweep across the array of instruments. Instruments. The name fits perfectly. They oftentimes become the casual factor of good music. Although a few are less pleasant.

"I wonder if you'd be one of the unpleasant, Marco."

"Plea-AaaHh!"

Yep. He strained until he reached his yield point.

"Easy." I flick a switchblade over a machete. "We still have use for your arms."

"We haven't even talked yet. Let's talk about this!" His voice is a sputter, courtesy of the blood that won't stop seeping from the gaps we've managed to create between his teeth—he looked like he needed the improvement. "Boss!" He sounds out of breath.

Grabbing a hacksaw, I look toward him. "I was going to say you sound better already."

He shakes his head. "Forgive me. I beg you..." His head drops again, his chest rising too high, falling too low. "I have a wife."

"Well, that makes it worse."

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine squarely. "I'm expecting."

"Not anymore."

His pupils dilate, and he turns ghostly pale, white against red—seasonal spirit, if you ask me.

While he remains stuck in horrifying disbelief, I walk back toward him, dragging my chair with me. I set it down beside him, turn it so the back is to him, then straddle it.

"What does that mean?" His voice is weak. "What does that f*****g mean!" He screams, shaking in place, and I regret not cutting his tongue out.

"It was a decision your wife came to after learning of your activities outside the holy bond of matrimony."

"Ahhh!" His scream fills the room.

"This one's loud, boss," Leon contributes from behind me.

Brandishing the saw, I speak. "They all are. Let's cut Marco here some slack."

"Humph!" He huffs but doesn't complain further.

"Why?" His eyes shine, tears rising from within. "Why?" His head drops again, shoulders shaking as the tears fall freely.

Turning to Eli, I motion him closer. "Let's get the last letter over with."

Eli drags a small iron stool closer, positioning it in front of Marco, an empty paper and a pen sitting neatly in the middle of it.

He waits for my approval. I nod.

Bowing, he moves behind Marco, unbinding the fucker.

Massaging his numb limbs, his eyes blankly stare at the unsullied sheet in front of him.

Silence presses in, heavy and expectant as I wait for him to make the right choice.

Drawing a long breath, he finally moves closer, fingers wrapping around the small ballpoint pen.

Pain detonates in my palm.

And just like that, the room tilts, my world slipping off balance. A sharp crack invades my ears just as pain explodes at the back of my skull.

"You will die by my hands!"

He drives the pen down again, and something sharp collides with my throat.