Page 6 of Daddy's Ring
"Your turn." I step back, giving Stellan room to work.
My brother moves forward with that eerie calm he always has, like he's approaching a business meeting instead of a beating. He's still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, not a hair out of place. The contrast between his appearance and what he's about to do would be funny if I didn't know him so well.
"Thirty thousand." Stellan circles the chair slowly. "That's what you thought you could skim without us noticing. Interesting number. Not small enough to hide, not large enough to run on."
Marcus tries to talk through his ruined mouth. It comes out wet and garbled.
"Can't understand you." Stellan glances at me. "Can you understand him?"
"Not a word."
"Shame." Stellan's fist connects with Marcus's ribs in a sharp, precise strike that makes the chair rock. "We'll have to communicate through other means."
I lean against the concrete wall, arms crossed, watching my brother work. This part of the business doesn't thrill me the way it does some people in our world. I don't crave violence, don't get off on power plays and dominance displays. But I don't shy from it either. It's necessary. Maintenance. Someone skims from our distribution network, word gets out, suddenly everyone thinks they can take a slice.
Can't have that.
Stellan hits him again, same spot. Methodical. That's always been the difference between us—I'm direct, efficient. Get it done and move on. Stellan treats it like surgery, finding exactly where to apply pressure for maximum effect with minimum waste.
"You know what's funny?" Stellan stops his circling to examine his knuckles. No blood on his. He's more careful than I am. "We already found the money. Your girlfriend's apartment, under the mattress. Very original."
Marcus makes a sound that might be despair.
"Right? That's what I said." Stellan looks at me. "Didn't I say that was disappointingly unoriginal?"
"You did mention it."
"Under the mattress. Like we don't have people who know every hiding spot in this city." He shakes his head, genuine disappointment coloring his tone. "You could've at least made it interesting."
I push off the wall, rolling my shoulders. My turn again. Marcus's head lolls to one side, consciousness flickering. I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me.
"Stay with us, Marcus. We're not done yet."
His eyes focus on my face with effort. There's the fear I need to see. Good. He needs to remember this, needs to carry it in his bones so when we let him walk out of here—and we will, because killing him would cause more problems than it solves—he spreads the right message.
I drive my fist into his solar plexus, not hard enough to do permanent damage but hard enough to empty his lungs. He gasps like a landed fish, the chair tipping backward before I catch it, setting it upright again.
"Getting soft." Stellan's voice comes from behind me, bored amusement threading through it. "That was practically a love tap."
"He's groaning, isn't he?"
"Barely counts." My brother appears at my shoulder, studying Marcus with clinical detachment. "Remember the guy last month? You had him done in fifteen minutes. This is what, thirty? Forty?"
"We're having a conversation." I step back, letting Marcus struggle for air. "I can multitask."
"Right. Conversation." Stellan's gray eyes cut to me, sharp with something that might be humor in anyone else. "That what we're calling it now?"
I know that tone. Here it comes.
"Don't start."
"Start what?" He moves in for another hit, this one to Marcus's kidney. Precise. Brutal. Marcus's scream echoes off concrete. "I'm just making an observation."
"Stellan."
"About how you've gone all domestic." He examines Marcus's face, checking pupil dilation. Making sure we're not losing him yet. "Big house in Chestnut Hill, pretty girl waiting at home. Cooking dinner like you're playing house."
"Fuck off." But there's no heat in it. This is familiar territory, well-worn through months of similar conversations. "I cook one meal and suddenly I'm domesticated?"
