Not fit for this game
877 Words
I was dressed in trackwear now, sliding into the car with Sloane behind the wheel.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation with your father,” she said, trying to sound composed. “The matter was urgent. Couldn’t wait.”
I didn’t say anything.
She exhaled quietly, but I caught it. Everything she’d done since I got back had been a mess. I could see it in her posture, the way she kept glancing at me. Was it guilt? Or was she just upset because she found me attractive and hated herself for slipping?
We pulled up at the port.
As we stepped out, the stench of salt and blood filled the air. About nine men knelt in the gravel—faces swollen, lips split, clothes torn. Battered.
“These are the cunts who hit Mikhail’s shipment,” Johnny said in his thick Liverpool accent, gesturing to the bruised men. “They were working solo. We beat the piss out of ’em, but none would say who sent them.”
I ignored him and walked toward the group.
“How did you get information about the shipment?” I asked one of them.
Silence.
I watched their faces—some defiant, others scared shitless. None spoke.
Sloane stepped beside me. I saw the way her brow tightened. She noticed what I did—the real question wasn’t who sent them, but how they even knew about the shipment. The others had missed that. That’s the difference between muscle and brains.
“Beat him again,” I said flatly, pointing at the guy in front.
Johnny raised his bat—but before it came down, one of the kneeling men snapped and pointed at another. Just like that.
Johnny turned and cracked the bat across the informant’s back with a loud thwack.
He raised it again, but I lifted a hand.
“He’s talked already, hasn’t he?” I said coldly. “Release them. Let them go. They’ve paid enough for what they did.”
Everything went still.
Even the bruised bastards looked confused. They waited like they expected a gunshot.
Sloane leaned in, voice sharp but low. “That’s not how things work here. We kill men like this. If we let them go, our clients will think we’re weak.”
“I said release them,” I repeated. “Nothing happens to them. I won’t say it again.”
Reluctantly, she turned toward the others. “Let them go,” she barked.
The captured men stumbled up and ran, half-broken and limping, too terrified to look back. But we didn’t fire.
Johnny walked up to Sloane, sneering. “Is this the boss’s son? He’s too soft. Don’t think he’s fit for this game.”
“We’ll see,” Sloane murmured.
I didn’t respond. I just pointed to one of the thugs nearby.
“Bring me the man who tipped off the attackers.”
They dragged him forward. He was shaking, blood dripping from his nose.
“You got anything to confess?” I asked, smiling just a little. “Give me something worth my time and maybe you walk out of here. But if you lie…”
I tilted my head. “Let’s just say—you don’t want that.”
He stared at the ground. “I just wanted extra money.”
My smile vanished.
“You’re already paid well. My father makes sure of it.”
“He pays well,” the man admitted. “But I wanted more. For the hoes,” he added with a cocky grin, like my earlier mercy still applied.
That did it.
“Break his legs,” I said to Johnny.
The guy’s smirk fell off his face like ice cracking.
“Wait, wait! I’ve got something else—information!” he shouted.
“Too late.” I stared at Johnny. “Break his legs. Or yours are next.”
Johnny blinked—surprised at the shift—but followed orders. He picked up a pipe. Two others held the man down.
CRACK.
The first swing broke bone. The man screamed.
“You f*****g cunt! You son of a—”
“Break the other,” I said.
“Please! I’m sorry!” he sobbed.
Johnny didn’t hesitate. CRACK.
The second leg went.
“And his left arm.”
The final blow dropped the man into a heap of pain and sobbing.
I turned and walked back to the car without looking at him again.
“Looks like you judged too soon,” Sloane said to Johnny.
“Maybe I did,” Johnny muttered with a dark laugh.
She got in beside me, shutting the door softly.
“Shall we go now, sir?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, staring straight ahead.
She tried to be gentle. “You okay?”
I didn’t look at her. “I’m not the one you should be asking. Ask the cripple back there.”
Silence.
“And stop calling me ‘sir.’ My name’s Damien.”
I felt her shift beside me—quiet. Maybe angry at herself. Maybe hurt.
Didn’t matter.
Whatever feelings she had for me… she’d need to kill them fast.
Because in this life, distractions don’t last long.
And they always come at a cost.
- Writer
