Lucien’s POV

“Do you know who I am?” I asked the guy zip-tied to the chair.

His wrists were swollen, his lip split open from Damon’s earlier welcome. His head hung low, dripping blood onto the concrete like a leaky faucet.

He didn’t respond, his shoulders tensed and he looked away.

“I’ll help you,” I said, crouching down to his level. “My name is Lucien Devereux. And you…” I reached out, gripping his chin tight and forcing his bloodied face to look at me. “You’re the man who pulled the trigger on my cousin.”

His eyes flickered, maybe with fear, or guilt, but he quickly hid it and tried to put on a brave face. Every weak man I had killed always did that. They loved pretending to be strong.

“Damon,” I called, not taking my eyes off the guy. “Do you see that? He thinks he’s brave.”

Damon chuckled echoed from behind me. “I bet you he’ll piss himself in the next five minutes.”

I smiled politely. “I’ll take that bet.”

I let go of his chin and stood up slowly, then walked to the steel table beside me. It was lined up perfectly, it had everything we could ever need for tonight. Wire, blades, clamps, hammers. Tools that made persuasion soothing and entertaining.

I picked up a thin scalpel, running my thumb along its edge. The tip of the blade caught the light. I turned around to face him.

“You see,” I began, stepping closer to him, “Damon likes drama so he’s loud and emotional. But me? I prefer precision. I enjoy the… details.”

I slid the scalpel along his cheek. Pressing it hard enough for him to feel the cold bite of the metal against skin. His body jerked, but the zip ties kept him in place.

“Relax,” I murmured, dragging the blade down to his neck, slow as I could. “You’ll thank me for this later.”

“You… you Devereuxs think you own the city,” he spat, though his voice quivered. “You’re not untouchable.”

I smiled, truly amused now. “You’re right. We’re not untouchable.” I paused, leaned in, my lips close to his ear. “But we’re very, very hard to survive.”

I stepped back and drove my fist into his stomach.

The air left his lungs in a strangled gasp. He hunched forward, coughing violently, but the ties didn’t give him the luxury to curl into himself.

“That was for calling my family’s name like you had a right,” I said, shaking my hand out. “Now, let’s try again.”

I crouched back down, eyes level with his, and held up the scalpel where he could see it.

“Who ordered the hit on Andre?”

He spat out blood onto the floor between us. His lip twitched, forming a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

I sighed. “Damon, I think I’ll win the bet.”

Damon’s boots clapped against the floor as he walked over, tossing a wrench onto the table with a loud clang.

“I gave you a chance,” I told him, picking up a thin wire coil. I stretched the coil between my gloved hands. “Now, it’s time to take my turn.”

I looped the wire delicately around his ear, the metal cold against his skin. His breathing hitched with every movement I made. He definitely knew what was coming.

“You know the funny thing about ears?” I asked, tightening the loop around his ear. “They bleed a lot. I heard it’s soft tissue, very sensitive. You’ll be surprised how fast you’ll lose your composure when you hear your own flesh tearing.”

His eyes widened and he started to shake his head. “Wait—wait, listen—”

“No,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “You listen.” Then I pulled the wire.

It wire sliced through cartilage with a wet, grating sound.

“Fuuucccckkkkkkk!” His scream bounced off the concrete walls, a high-pitched, animalistic screech that made Damon laugh like a devil in the background.

His eyes widened, and his body shook as blood poured out of his ear, dripping down his face and onto his neck.

I dropped the severed piece onto his lap.

“There,” I said, straightening my sleeves. “Now you’re down to one ear.”

He whimpered, his head rolling back, his body shaking from the pain as sweat dripped down his chin. It mixed with the blood flowing from where his ear used to be.

“I’ll ask again,” I said, crouching, keeping my tone leveled. “Who gave you the order?”

His lips quivered, but he still said nothing. He shook, and his hands tried to reach for his ear, but they tied, so his body lurched and lurched uselessly.

Damon leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You know, Lucien, you’re being too nice. I’m sure he still thinks you’re bluffing.”

I turned the scalpel between my fingers. “Oh, but I never bluff. I thought everyone knew that now.”

I held the blade under his remaining ear, but this time I didn’t move it.

“I’m giving you a gift,” I said softly. “An opportunity to keep the other ear.” I met his eyes. “Give. Me. The. Names. Now.” I shouted.

He shook as I slid the knife around his ear. “It… it’s Hugo!” he gasped. “It was Hugo Mathis. He paid us to do the job.”

I tilted my head, unimpressed. “Hugo Mathis is a middleman. Hugo doesn’t place hits without a leash around his neck. Who’s holding the leash?”

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I swear on my life, man, Hugo didn’t say—”

I pressed the scalpel tip into his skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

“Your life’s not worth much right now,” I said. “Try swearing on something of value.”

He started sobbing, full-body shakes, mumbling incoherent pleas.

Damon moved closer, crouching beside me. “I say we start on his fingers next. What do you think, Lucien? Start small, maybe the pinky?”

I nodded. “Good idea. Start light. He’s not done bleeding yet.”

He started sobbing, but that didn’t move me. Only thing that moved me was results, and he was not giving it to me.

I picked up the pliers from the table, weighing them in my hand. Damon was pacing behind me, his knuckles itching for more, but I wasn’t done with the guy yet.

“Funny thing about fingers,” I said, turning back to him. “They seem insignificant. Until you start losing them.”

He started hyperventilating, his chest heaving as he breathed in and out with careless abandon. The remaining blood in his face drained out. I crouched beside him and grabbed his hand. He squirmed, but the zip ties held him firm in place.

“Pinky first,” Damon muttered, leaning against the wall. “Let’s save the thumb for dessert.”

I tightened the pliers around his pinky nail.

“Nooooooooooo!” He closed his eyes, screaming before I even pulled on it. The anticipation was breaking him more than the pain ever would.

“Who ordered the hit?” I asked, giving the pliers a slight tug.

He shook his head frantically. “I told you! It w.. it was Hugo—he gave us the job—”

Wrong answer. I yanked out the plier.

The nail ripped out with a wet, tearing sound. His scream cracked the air, hoarse and raw, vibrating through my bones. Damon let out a low whistle.

“That’s one,” I said, calmly. “You’ve got nine left.”

“I—I don’t know anything else!” he sobbed. “I swear, man, I swear! Hugo said no names, just the target!”

I looked up at Damon. “He’s wasting my time.”

Damon smirked. “Let’s motivate him.”

He walked over to the metal locker, pulled out a stack of photographs, it was pictures of our cousin Andre. He was happy, smiling in some and then he was a bloodied corpse in the last sets. He dropped them on the man’s lap.

“Look at him,” Damon growled, shoving the picture in the man’s face. “This is family you killed. You think this is just business as usual?”

The man stared at the pictures, his body shaking with guilt, or maybe it was from fear. Either way, it wasn’t enough to calm down the anger raging in my veins.

I grabbed his ring finger this time. He thrashed, but I held him still.

“Every lie costs you a nail,” I said softly, almost like a teacher explaining a simple rule. “And trust me, I’m patient enough to finish the whole two sets.”

“No… no, please! Okay, okay—Hugo said the job came from higher up, someone big. Said it was personal—”

I stopped, tightening my grip. “Who?”

“I don’t know!” he wailed. “Hugo never said!”

I pulled the plier fast, and another nail ripped free.

He convulsed in the chair, his screams shredding the stale air around us. Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling on the concrete.

Damon crouched beside me, his grin feral. “You’re running out of fingers, buddy.”

The man broke.

“Rafael DeLuca!” he screamed. “It was Rafael! Hugo said Rafael wanted him dead—said it was a personal message to your family!”

I let go of his hand and stood up slowly.

Damon went still. His jaw tightened, his fists curling.

Rafael DeLuca. Of course it was him. That arrogant fuck had been circling our family like a vulture for months. He wanted a war. He just signed up for one.

I grabbed a rag and wiped off the blood from my hands.

“You’re going to deliver a message,” I said, stepping closer. “To Rafael. He’s going to know exactly who’s coming for him.”

The man whimpered. “Anything. Please, anything. Just stop…”

Damon pulled out a small iron rod from the furnace in the corner, its tip glowing red-hot. The branding iron. It had the initials L & D—our mark.

“You’ll carry our signature,” I said. “Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember whose family you touched.”

“No… no, please—” he sobbed, but Damon was already on him, pressing the brand into his chest.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” His scream was grueling, deep from his soul and spirit. It echoed off the walls, a sound so guttural and broken that even Damon’s grin faltered for a moment.

The stench of burning flesh filled the room.

Damon let him slump forward, unconscious, his chest rising and falling shallowly. The mark was raw, angry, perfect.

“Let’s drop him at Rafael’s club,” I said, rolling my sleeves back down. “We’ll make sure they see the mark before they see his face.”

Damon nodded, his usual cocky smile back in place.

I stood over the man for a moment longer, watching his blood spread beneath the chair like a crimson halo. His life wasn’t worth much, but his body would carry the message.

Family gets avenged, blood answers to blood.

And tonight, Rafael signed a death sentence.

I adjusted my cufflinks, the only thing clean on me.

“If we ever cross paths again,” I muttered, “I’ll carve Rafael’s name into your heart.”