Trapped in his End Game (Series)

TOMMY

“Please, stop!”

Please, stop. Please, stop!

It’s useless noise. The words roll right over my shoulders. The noises he makes are like paper clips thrown at a brick wall. They do nothing to me.

I flinch as a particularly loud scream stabs my ears, and for a second I consider slashing open his throat to kill the noise. It’s always the same fucking thing. Same routine. I catch them. I torture them. They scream, beg, fight, and then they die. All of them.

A man in my position has an intoxicating amount of power. Sometimes, I’ll admit, it goes to my head. I might not decide who dies, but I decide how they die. Sometimes there’s information I’ll need to extract from them, but most of the time I’m just fucking with them. There’s an artistry to what I do. You think it’s easy to break someone, to wear them down until there’s nothing left? It’s not. It takes a lot of energy and a lot of guts. Not many people can do what I do.

Sure, there are plenty of fucking psychos out there who’d gladly take my job, but are they trustworthy? Can you count on a guy who acts as if he’s got nothing to lose?

No.

The only danger in doing what I do is losing yourself from the things you’ve done. Pieces of you get ripped away, little by little. You change. You’re like a beast, with blood running down your front and a manic grin on your face. People look at you differently.

We’re in a stainless-steel room that’s supposed to be used for butchering meat, but lately Jack has me butchering people here, too. In this room, blood saturates the air. It’s a strong, metallic smell that stays in your nostrils for hours. I’m the only one in his crew who can stomach this kind of shit. And you get used to the screaming, the same old pleas, the threats, and all that boring shit.

We have him strapped to a table. There’s nothing Jack wants from this guy.

The underboss, Vince, watches from across the room, and I feel his discomfort. His eyes burn with vengeance as he looks down at the man strapped to the table, but there’s a tic in his jaw. It jumps and just that small detail tells me that he’s uncomfortable. See, I can read people pretty well. I’m pretty fucking intimate with human emotions. You have to be when you do what I do. I’ve spent hours studying their faces.

It’s all in the eyes. They change when the person feels hope, when they think I’ve granted them a reprieve. It’s a lightening of the brow and a slight widening of the eyes. Like right now. The poor bastard strapped to the table looks at me with so much hope in his eyes that I almost feel sorry for him.

Vince crosses his arms, trying to look unconcerned, but his fingers tap his elbow. It’s a nervous tic. Every so often I feel his eyes and look at him. He can only sustain my gaze for a few seconds before curling his lip in slight disgust. I turn my gaze back toward the young man strapped to the table.

“I liked you the most, Tommy. Please, please don’t!”

His wasted face dissolves into sobs and the tears well up in his glassy eyes, spilling out like blood.

Yeah, you liked me so much you decided to rat me out, along with everyone else.

I slide the knife inside Ben’s mouth as he screams, cutting himself all over the blade, and then I turn the knife. It pierces his cheek and I make a sharp, flicking movement with my wrist and I make his. His mouth becomes a bloody grimace.

Vince sends another flicker of disgust my way.

It rolls over me. I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. Or what anyone else thinks, for that matter.

I work my knife through poor little Ben’s flesh, my ears vibrating with his screams. My knife twists as an electrical bolt strikes my brain, sending a flash of heat over my face.

The man lying on my table belonged to a family I work for. He had privileges I’ll never have. He was a made man. It’s a license to steal, kill, to do whatever the fuck you want, and this asshole took a giant shit on the honor he was given. The fact that I’m half-Italian, that I’ll never be made no matter how much fucking money I make these pieces of shit, pisses me off.

So I take it out on Ben.

“STOP! PLEASE!”

Now he’s finally getting desperate. The pain is so intense, he’ll fucking say anything. Anything I want. His young face is a crisscross of wounds, like a sharpening block for a knife. I look at his eyes, whitened with fear.

“Tommy, PLEASE!”

I bend my face toward him. “What did you tell the feds?”

“Nothing!” The gash in his mouth opens obscenely. “Just license plates and shit like that!”

His stubbornness makes my blood boil, and Vincent shifts against the wall.

“Just tell me, and I’ll end it.”

But Ben knows too much. He knows how much I like this shit, knows it won’t be quick and painless, no matter what I promise. Tears leak out of his eyes and his small body racks with pathetic sobs. Deep, gasping sounds that make Vincent squirm.

“MOMMY! HELP!”

This happens sometimes. I’ve heard about it happening in war, too. You always see it in the movies. Soldiers dying everywhere, spending their last breaths screaming for their mommies. Well, it’s not fiction. It happens. Extreme fear and blood loss do strange things to the brain.

I don’t like it when they do it. That’s why I usually muffle their voices, but in this case I let him scream. We need him to talk.

Vince curls into himself and swears under his breath, ironing his face with his hands.

How can he feel pity for this asshole? He’s just as bad as we are. We all deserve this.

I work on his hands then, knowing how painful that area under your fingernail is. There are special tools I use. A thin, long piece of metal with a razor-sharp tip, as broad as your fingernail. I dig, dig, and dig. Soon his screams are shaking the table and he’s thrashing so hard, I’m afraid he’ll rip out the restraints. He’s like an unbroken horse. Jesus.

“What did you tell them, you rat fuck?” I scream right next to his head.

Great, heaving breaths shake from his throat. “I told them-I told them about the coke dealing at the strip club, but that’s it, I swear!”

“Oh, fuck me.” Vince grips his hair, his eyes wide. “What exactly did you tell them?” he bellows. “Ben!”

“I can’t! I can’t!” Ben closes his eyes and cries like a baby. It’s a high, shrill sound that makes my ears ache. He might as well be a cow screaming before slaughter.

I set the tool down and pick up a knife, and Ben lets out an even louder wail.Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

Giving up, Vince throws his hands up, shaking his head. “Just fucking kill him.”

“I’m not done with him, Vince.”

A steely look comes over his face. “Just do it,” he spits out.

Make me.

A grin spreads over my face. With this knife in my hands, he’s not making me do fuck all. I want to sink this blade right between that fucker’s ribs, and I’m crazy enough to do it. He knows it. I look right at him.

“No.”

He tenses. “No? What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Vince eyes the knife in my hand. I realize that behind his thinly veiled disgust, there’s fear, too.

Good.

“I make a lot of fucking money for you, Vince. I only ask for one thing in return: I handle the hits.” The gleaming knife twists in my hand as white-hot anger clenches my jaw, making my face hot. “If you can’t take it, get out of my room.”

“Tommy, this is fucking sick.” His dark gaze lingers on Ben’s pale body, which trembles violently as blood leaks out of him.

Then get the fuck out of my room, pussy!

“I earned this, and I need it.”

Vince’s eyes glitter strangely as he looks at me for several long seconds. I can feel the judgment rolling off him in waves, which is fucking precious. He swallows hard, nods, and walks out the door. Ben moans horribly when it closes. The last flicker of hope in his eyes dies when Vince leaves. He knows he’s fucked.

I start to work on him in earnest. He goes quiet when I’ve extracted every single scream that I can. They all go quiet in the end, and only then do I kill them. With the knife, I swipe open his carotid artery, and he’s dead in seconds. Dark-red blood spills sluggishly from his neck. There’s blood all over the goddamn floor.

What a mess I’ve made.

A wave of exhaustion hits me when I clean it all up and give the other associates his body parts to dispose. It’s a catharsis. I don’t glory in the gore of it at all. I don’t like seeing the blood, the fibers of muscle tissue, bone, or any of that shit. It’s the violence that gives me relief from the anger poisoning my blood. It’s as if there’s a monster banging on my ribs, clawing to get out. If I wait too long in between kills, he takes over me. The rage consumes me, and I snap. I hurt people who don’t deserve to be hurt.

I wash my arms in the sink outside the room, but more blood keeps dripping from my soaked shirt, so I tear it off and shove it in the bag with Ben’s arms and legs. I grab one of the deli’s white t-shirts and pull it over my head, growling when several dots of blood bloom on the shirt like pinpricks. Goddamn, that fucker got all over me.

Then I wring my hands out and push open the double doors to the back of the store. I feel like a doctor delivering bad news to a large family in a waiting room. Their eyes avoid me completely. They know my arrival means Ben is gone.

Normally this room is filled with the sound of people talking, bullshitting, whatever. Fifteen or so men are in the room, and you could hear a pin drop. What’s there to say? A made guy was caught talking to the feds. It’s an outrage. It’s a tragedy, too. All of them look pale. Ben’s betrayal shook them. Everyone liked him, even me. Ben had an infectious smile. Many of them regarded him as a little brother, but he talked to the cops.

We all know what happens when you do that.

Joe, one of the captains, took it especially hard. He sits in one of the chairs, looking as if his sister died all over again. They probably didn’t hear his screams-the place is pretty soundproof-but Vince sure as fuck did. Jack places an arm around my shoulders, unsmiling.

“Tommy boy, good work. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”

I can tell from the unhappy faces that I’m not welcome here tonight. It’s not that they don’t like me, but I’m the one who killed the guy everyone liked. The mood just feels strained. My footsteps echo hollowly in the deli, and I leave without so much as a wave, exiting to walk into the stinging air. It feels colder than usual, and it isn’t until I reach my car and look at the rearview mirror that I realize my face is wet.

An invisible force slams into my chest and I crumple over myself, my face falling into my hands. It’s a strange tightening sensation in my chest. Air shakes through my mouth.

He always saved me a seat at the poker table, always had a smile for me. He was a nice guy, but that didn’t stop me from carving him up like a Christmas turkey.

Why the fuck did you rat us out? You knew what would happen to you if we found out. Now you’re gone, and your mother will get a visit from the FBI when you turn up missing, telling her that we probably killed her only son.

I regret it.

Remorse swells my chest, and I ball my hands into fists as a shaking sigh leaves my mouth. I sit there in the freezing seat of my car for a while and I feel low.

Why did I do that to him? Why do I do it to any of them? There’s no need to make them suffer so much. No need to torture, maim, and kill them like I do.

But I can’t stop it.

Grief is like a tide. It blows forward, its icy white fingers grabbing my chest, and then it recedes. Then it comes back and fades again, ebbing and flowing. Each time it comes back, it’s a little less strong. After ten minutes I don’t understand the tears on my cheeks, just like I don’t understand how some men shake when I rob them. The only thing I know is rage. The familiar stirrings begin in the pit of my stomach. The guys’ faces run through my mind, kindling for the small spark.

And I’m angry again.

I wish I could tell you that I was abused.

I wish I could tell you that I had a shitty childhood.

I’m just sick.