I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 036

The makeshift banquet came together with the frenetic energy of a victory celebration. Blaze scrounged up forty mismatched chairs from the warehouse, while the inner circle settled in with the casual anticipation of a theater audience. Marcus Grady somehow materialized vintage red wine and platters of roast beef—luxury spoils liberated from a high-end pantry during the chaos.

The atmosphere surged as the Talons arrived. Fresh from the s*******r and still fueled by adrenaline, these death row inmates emerged from the confinement cells howling. They pushed five heavy stainless-steel food carts, their wheels rattling like thunder against the concrete.

Bobby Santoro let out a roar of laughter, face smeared with grime. "Holy hell! Look at this spread! Red wine and fine dining? Tonight, we dine like kings!"

Under Kane Adler’s approving nod, the men interlocked the carts to form a massive banquet table. These forty-plus survivors of the Confinement Death Ward gathered around, the old frictions of prison life—territorial disputes and hidden shanks—now forgotten. Having walked through fire together, they were a brotherhood forged in blood, ready to catch a bullet for one another without hesitation.

All inhibitions vanished. Amidst the clinking of bottles and raucous toasts, the crew playfully jeered, taking turns trying to ply Kane with alcohol in a spirited game of affectionate hazing.

It was a harmonious gathering of butchers.

Rex Dalton, the Mad Tiger, tore into a chunk of beef and bellowed over the roar of the banquet, "Hey! We’re saving the booze and meat for you, Dixon! But start the show—we’re all waiting! Hahaha!" The crowd of Talons echoed the sentiment, their mouths full of spoils as they cheered for the grim spectacle to begin.

In the center of the clearing, Dixon and the vice-captain of the Execution Unit, Cillian Moss, finished securing the unconscious Miles Keaton to a heavy steel chair. Dixon, a man as cold and damp as a crypt, paused to adjust his cuffs before performing a slow, theatrical bow. The gentlemanly gesture was jarringly out of place on a sadist, stunning the crowd for a split second before they erupted into raucous whistles.

"t*****e method number one: The Unveiling," Dixon announced with the professional tone of a surgeon. "We begin with a circumferential incision around the arm. Precision is paramount—slicing exactly to the boundary where skin meets flesh." He withdrew a surgical scalpel and made a perfect, bloodless circle an inch above the prisoner's wrist. His mastery was such that he avoided severing muscle or spilling a single drop of blood.

"Next," Dixon continued, "we submerge the hand into boiling water, followed instantly by ice water. The thermal shock shatters the connective tissue. A forceful downward pull then causes the skin to slide off perfectly, like a glove."

A collective gulp echoed around the table. The Talons, and even Kane Adler, unconsciously glanced at their own hands, a chill running down their spines at the thought of skin shedding like a snake. The wariness in their eyes toward Dixon deepened.

Dixon closed his eyes, savoring the tension. "However, the agony usually forces the subject into immediate unconsciousness. To ensure he appreciates every second of this magnificent pain, we must take precautions. Cillian, attach the leads to the dagger and connect them to the battery."

Once the crude electrical circuit was rigged, Dixon took two daggers and slammed them viciously into Miles Keaton’s inner thighs.

"AAAAHHH!"

Miles, who had been comatose, was jolted awake by the searing pain. His eyes snapped open, wide with terror and confusion. He thrashed against the restraints, staring wildly at Kane Adler and the dining men. "Who are you?! What do you want?! Let me go! Ahhh!"

Dixon ignored the screaming man completely, continuing his lecture to the audience like a tenured professor. "Observe the insertion point: the inner thigh. This is one of the distinct areas of the human body where pain receptors are most dense. Cillian, engage the current. This specific voltage is calibrated to induce muscle spasms and agony, but more importantly, it acts as a stimulant to the nervous system. It forces the brain to remain hyper-alert."

Cillian Moss flipped the switch.

"AAAAHHH—" Miles Keaton clamped his jaw shut, a guttural roar trapped in his throat. His body convulsed violently, his fat face twisting into a mask of absolute horror. The electricity coursed through him, denying him the mercy of unconsciousness.

Dixon glanced at Kane Adler for approval. Kane nodded.

Dixon snapped his fingers. Snap.

"Begin."

His movement was a blur. His right hand seized Miles’s wrist. Splash. Boiling water. Splash. Ice water. The thermal transition was instantaneous. Before Miles could process the temperature change, Dixon’s left hand gripped the skin just below the incision and pulled downward with immense force.

Schlupp.

It was a sickening, wet sound—like a boot being pulled out of deep mud.

In the blink of an eye, a semi-transparent, complete glove of human skin dangled from Dixon’s fingers.

Miles Keaton stared at his own right hand. It was raw, crimson, and glistening—a biological anatomy model come to life. He froze. His brain refused to comprehend what he was seeing. Then, the reality hit.

"AAAAHHH—!!!"

The scream that tore from his throat didn't sound human. It was the shriek of a wounded beast, a primal expression of violation that made the air in the warehouse drop ten degrees. Even hardened killers like Rex Dalton and Kane Adler felt their scalps prickle as they looked at the flayed hand and the skin in Dixon’s grip.

"Who are you people?! What do you want?! I’ll give you anything!!" Miles’s eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted, his body rigid from the electric shocks. Snot, tears, and saliva streamed down his face in a grotesque river of despair.

Dixon grabbed a dirty rag and shoved it unceremoniously into Miles’s mouth, stifling the noise. "We’ll get to the Q and A session later."

He lifted Miles’s b****y, skinless hand and displayed it to the room. "When the skin is removed, the nerve endings are completely exposed to the air. In this state, if one were to sprinkle, say, black pepper, table salt, or chili powder onto the raw flesh... the stimulation to the nervous system is maximized. It is an indescribable sensation. Cillian, why don't we demonstrate?"

Miles’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He tried to scream, but the gag reduced it to a muffled, desperate whimper. He stared at the salt shaker in Cillian’s hand with the terrifying intensity of a man watching a guillotine blade fall.

Just then, the heavy metal door creaked open. Nathan Black walked in, followed by a red-eyed Noah Grayson and the six guards who had previously betrayed him.

Thud.

Without a word, Nathan Black, Noah, and the others dropped to their knees in front of Kane Adler.

"Thank you, Kane."

Nathan Black’s gratitude was heavy and genuine. He knew the rules of the underworld better than anyone. If Kane had ordered the s*******r of everyone in that room, Nathan wouldn't have had the right to complain. But Kane had handed the fate of these traitors back to him. By doing so, especially after they had shown such loyalty to Nathan, Kane was sending a clear message: absolute trust.

For a man who used to be a Champion of the underworld, nothing was more intoxicating than being given respect and trust by a superior power. The word 'gratitude' had rarely existed in Nathan’s vocabulary before, but tonight, it was branded onto his soul.

Kane waved his hand dismissively, his expression calm. "You're Noah, right?"

"Yes, Kane," Noah Grayson replied, keeping his head low, his voice trembling with reverence.

"I generally despise traitors," Kane said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming serious. "Regardless of the reasons or the coercion involved. betrayal is betrayal. However, watching your performance earlier... I’ve decided to grant you a reprieve. This is the only second chance you will ever get in this life."

"Noah swears on his life," the man choked out, "I will serve Kane Adler until my last breath."

Kane smiled faintly, shaking his head. "No, no. You don't need to pledge loyalty to me. You seven... you stick with Nathan Black. You’ve been together for years. You know his moves, you know his mind. It makes operations smoother."

Nathan looked up, stunned. "Kane, you..."

"Do you remember what you promised me?" Kane interrupted, his eyes sharp. "You said you would help me rebuild the narcotics distribution channels across the northern states. I don't know the first thing about that business. I’m leaving it entirely to you. Noah will handle your personal security. In the beginning, you’re going to face a lot of heat. I’m assigning Nate, Ten, Fitz, and Seth to your detail temporarily. Once you have the channels re-established, I’ll recall them. Does that work for you?"

Nathan’s body shook with emotion. He kowtowed, his forehead touching the cold floor. "Nathan Black will not let you down."

"Haha, let's hope not," Kane laughed, lightening the mood. "Come on, stand up. Look over there. Your dear biological brother is waiting. Whatever you want to ask him, go ahead. Anything you need to know."

Nathan nodded, rising slowly. He turned his gaze toward the chair. Since walking in, he had been avoiding looking at him, but now his eyes locked onto the man bound in wire and blood... Miles Keaton.

Nathan’s expression hardened into ice. He walked over, staring down at the whimpering, terrified mass of flesh. He reached out and patted Miles’s sweaty, fat cheek.

"My dear little brother," Nathan sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You didn't expect this, did you? The ghost of your past is back."

Smack!

Nathan wound up and delivered a backhand slap so hard it echoed through the warehouse. He grabbed a fistful of Miles’s hair, yanking his head back. "If you want a quick death, you tell me everything I want to know. For the sake of the brotherhood we once shared, I might just make it painless."

He ripped the rag out of Miles’s mouth.

Miles Keaton immediately spat blood and screamed, "How the hell are you not dead?! I made sure—AAAAHHH!"

He didn't get to finish. Cillian Moss shook the salt and pepper mixture directly onto the raw, skinless hand.

The sound Miles made was primal. His body arched against the chair, his teeth clenching so hard they threatened to shatter. veins bulged across his forehead like blue worms.

Dixon stepped in, holding a small container of bamboo toothpicks. He waved one in front of Miles’s unfocused eyes.

"Listen closely," Dixon whispered. "We ask, you answer. If you say one word that isn't an answer, one of these goes into your fingers. You know the saying, 'ten fingers connected to the heart'? The pain is... specific. It stays with you. And if you’re stubborn, I have a variation. I insert the toothpick, twist it until it splinters inside the nail bed, and then rip it out. The feeling... is memorable."

Miles was bleeding from the mouth now, having bitten his tongue. But the look he gave Dixon wasn't just anger anymore. It was pure, distilled terror. He was looking at a demon.

Dixon wasn't done. He picked up a thick plastic tube, about the diameter of a fist, and a lighter. He smiled, a dark, predatory expression.

"If the fingers don't work, I have a backup plan. I slide this tube over your... manhood. Then, I place a live rat inside the tube and seal the end. I apply a torch to the outside of the tube. As the heat rises, the rat will panic. It will look for an escape. When it finds the plastic too hard to scratch through, it will burrow into the only soft thing available. Your urethra. It will dig its way right into you." Dixon chuckled softly. "I imagine that sensation is quite unique."

Miles Keaton, a man who had built an empire on ruthlessness, finally broke. His psyche shattered.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "I'll tell you everything! Please! God, please!"

Dixon wagged a finger gently. "I told you. No extraneous words. Unfortunately, you didn't listen. Begging counts as waste."

With a bloodthirsty grin, Dixon grabbed Miles’s intact left hand. He selected a toothpick. Ignoring the frantic, sobbing pleas of the broken man, he slowly, deliberately drove the wood under the fingernail...

"Let's start with the basics," Nathan Black said cold, watching the t*****e without blinking. "Who are you working for?"

"Adrian Blackwell! I work for Adrian Blackwell!" Miles shrieked. "He’s the one who ordered the hit on the Iron Crest leadership! He wanted the territory!"

"Adrian Blackwell..." Kane Adler mused from the table, twirling a wine glass. "The Xu family head. Big fish."

"Where is the stash?" Nathan demanded. "The reserves from the Iron Crest vault. Where did you move it?"

"It’s in a safe house! In Larkspur, Hawthorne State! 4200 Industrial Way! It’s all there! Cash, gold, the ledger! Just stop him! Please stop him!"

Dixon paused, looking at Nathan. Nathan nodded.

"One last thing," Nathan leaned in close, his face inches from his brother's. "Why? Why did you betray me? We built this empire together."

Miles wept, a broken, pathetic sound. "Jealousy... it was always jealousy, Nathan. You were the Champion. I was just the brother. Blackwell promised me the throne. He promised I would be the King of the East Wing."

Nathan stood up, a look of utter disgust on his face. He turned to Kane Adler. "I have what I need, Kane."

Kane stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked at the trembling wreck of a man in the chair. "Clean this up. We move on Larkspur tonight. The Iron Crest is dead. Long live the Shadow Eagle Clan."

As the men began to pack up, Dixon leaned down to Miles’s ear one last time. "Don't worry," he whispered. "The rat is still hungry."

The screams that followed echoed long into the night, a grim lullaby for a new empire rising from the blood of the old.