Catching Bianca: A Dark Mafia Romance (Shadows of Obsession Book 4)
Catching Bianca: Chapter 5

The smell of piss hangs thick in the air, irritating my nose. It wouldn’t be half as bad if it didn’t mix with the stench of puke and latex. Despite the breeze filtering through the missing glass in the warehouse windows, the stench is still suffocating.

Broadway’s newest target, Amadeus Tipton—strapped by his ankles and wrists, hangs off a car lift we installed a couple of days ago specifically for this kill.

He whimpers, tears streaming down his face, body convulsing as nausea shakes him from head to toe. He’s gagged now, his pleas and curses nothing more than a muffled noise.

It was Koby’s idea to shove a tennis ball into the man’s mouth. He was tired of the screaming. Delicate little thing.

“I’m never buying you anything again,” he tells Broadway, staring at the knives lining a metal table Arthur’s wheeled close.

He’s not carving the fucker with them. Oh, no. This is much more sinister. Much more elaborate and scarier than a simple flesh-cutting session.

Broadway believes his girl’s rapists deserve the most painful deaths. A reciprocation of the horrors they put her through. That’s exactly what poor Arthur’s been delivering for the past forty minutes.

Sweat trickles down the sides of his face, the latex gloves on his hands reaching past his elbows. A plastic, see-through apron hugs his frame, keeping the various bodily fluids away from his brand-new suit.

Arthur’s trying a little too hard to fit in.

The three-piece he’s wearing must’ve cost a fortune. We rarely slip into suits and never for kills like this. It’s such a waste when tailored garments are stained with blood. Or, as it happens in today’s show: piss, puke, blood, and… semen.

“You know how much that set cost?” Koby whines again, a little pale as he looks away from the knives Arthur’s been shoving into the guy’s ass.

“I’m sorry, Koby,” Broadway chuckles. “But don’t tell me this show isn’t worth whatever you spent.”

He rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging the side of his face. Koby’s much less ostentatious than Broadway when it comes to killing, but he loves a good show. What Broadway planned, and Arthur’s fulfilling, sure makes for a damn good show.

Gruesome, psychotic, nausea inducing, but good.

“Take five,” Broadway says when Arthur drops the last—and biggest—knife on the table, the handle stained brown and red. “Let him think for a moment.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, placing one between his teeth. Exhaling a cloud of gray smoke, one hand in his pocket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the jacket at home or in the back of his G Wagon, Broadway saunters toward the buck-naked man hanging in mid-air.

He’s not playing executioner today, so he’s pulled out all the stops to look the part.

“How are you replaceing our hospitality?” he asks, yanking the tennis ball out of Amadeus’s mouth. It falls to the ground, straight into a puddle of puke.

My stomach churns because I just fucking know Broadway will roll that ball in there before he orders Arthur to jam it back in the guy’s mouth.

“You’re dead,” Amadeus heaves. Bold move. I guess he realized begging won’t help him. “I swear, when I get out—”

“Out?” Broadway scoffs, pinching the cigarette between his lips. He inhales deeply, exhaling the cloud in Amadeus’s face. “You think you’ll come out of this alive? Think again.”

The guy coughs, blood spattering the dirty floor and forcing Broadway a step back. “They won’t stop looking for me. You have no idea how deep the shit you stepped in when you kidnapped me is. Do you know who I work for?!”

Broadway sneers before glancing over his shoulder at Koby and me. “You didn’t tell him why he’s here?”

“We grabbed and went,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Was I supposed to read the charge sheet? Maybe you’d have liked me to read him his rights as well?”

“You know perfectly well he doesn’t have any.” Broadway points his cigarette at me. “This is golden,” he chuckles, leveling his girl’s rapist with a pointed stare. “Well, Amadeus, I know exactly who you work for. I know who you are, who your mother, father, and sister are and where to replace them. I know where your current girl lives, who she fucks, and that she’s pregnant, but the kid’s not yours. I also know you bought my girl and raped her for hours. I know you won’t get out of this alive, and I know your boss will drape his arm over my shoulders when I’m in Chicago this weekend and pour me a glass of his finest Bourbon. And you’ll still be here. Dead or alive, I don’t necessarily give a shit as long as you suffer.”

Amadeus’s body thrashes against the restraints. “You’re the guy who’s been picking off Noretto’s private buyers?! You’re a dead man walking whoever the fuck you are.”

Koby chuckles beside me. “You heard about Carter Willard, didn’t you?” he asks while Amadeus thrashes some more, trying to look over his shoulder.

“We’re Willard’s crew,” Koby supplies. “And the guy you’re looking at is Viera’s boyfriend.”

“Violet’s,” Broadway corrects automatically.

“I doubt he knows she changed her name,” Koby protests. “He deserves to know why he’ll die here, right?”

“He deserves pain.” Broadway exhales another cloud of smoke, his cigarette expiring.

Instead of dropping it on the ground, he puts it out on Amadeus’s forehead.

The scream is fucking ungodly.

“Jesus, gag him, will you?” Koby mutters, holding both hands over his delicate ears.

He can spend the whole night at Scarlett where the speakers boom so loud the bass shakes the entire building, but screams of agony give him a headache almost instantly.

“You’ll pay for this,” Amadeus spits out. “Sooner or later, someone will replace you and kill you. I bet it will be Blaze.”

That gets Broadway’s attention. He lights another cigarette, cocking an eyebrow. “If Noretto had the balls to pull the trigger, he would’ve done so a long time ago.”

“Desperate men do desperate things. There’s word on the street that Grey’s fuming. Private buyers are pulling out of Noretto’s auctions left and right since the rumors about more and more of us disappearing began floating around.”

I cross my arms over my chest, wondering why he’s telling us any of this. Is it fear? Some kind of fuck you to Broadway? A scare tactic? Maybe he hopes we’ll let him walk if he divulges enough information?

Fear does funny things to people. Loosens their tongues and clouds their judgment.

The look on Broadway’s face hasn’t changed one iota. He’s still as bloodthirsty as he was when he entered the warehouse almost an hour ago, locking eyes with Amadeus.

“They say Grey threatened Noretto’s life if the auctions don’t start raking in as much cash as they used to. He has a deadline to fix this mess. Can you guess what that means?” He spits on the floor, a mix of saliva and blood. “It means gutting the man responsible for almost bankrupting his business.”

“That man being me,” Broadway supplies. “Noretto’s many things, Amadeus. Stupid isn’t one of them no matter what people say. He knows who’s behind the kills. The dead men have one thing in common: my girl. Tell me…” He bends low enough to level his gaze with Amadeus’s. “Did he warn you? Did he say you better hide?” Without waiting for a reply, he chuckles, straightening up again. “I didn’t think so. See, Blaze knows he can’t stop this. He knows every fucker who laid a hand on my girl will end up six feet under. He’s glad he hasn’t made the list.”

Broadway adjusts his sleeves, unrolling one before rolling it back up again. He’s growing impatient.

“Did you think telling me all this would spare you? Nothing can save you. You touched my girl. You’ll die no matter what you say or offer.”

Amadeus stops rattling his wrist against his restraints. He spits once more and cranes his neck before meeting Broadway’s deranged stare.

“She enjoyed it,” he says, weighing every word for impact. “That little slut you call yours begged me for more.”

Instead of sneering, or sending his right hook into Amadeus’s face, Broadway smiles.

You’d think saying shit like that would be the worst idea our guest could come up with. That taunting Broadway would speed our guest’s demise…

I bet that’s what he’s counting on.

He knows why he’s here. He knows who Broadway is. He knows his loose connection to Dante Carrow means nothing.

He knows his death is a matter of time and he wants that time reduced to a minimum. I can’t blame him. Arthur’s just getting started. He’s shoved five different knife handles into Amadeus’s ass and made him come twice.

He cried the first time, swearing on everything that he’s not gay. That’s he’s normal. The homophobic piece of shit.

It hit our gay friend Arthur quite hard and the laugh that bubbled from his chest was far from amused.

“Give it a few more orgasms,” he said.

And although his hands shook at the beginning of this torture session, Arthur managed his jitters like a pro.

It’s been a while since we had anyone as determined to join the ranks as him. I think Violet’s the reason he even considered the idea. They were close while she was working the bar alongside him. I think he misses her company now Broadway’s put her on bed rest for her pregnancy.

That over-the-top protectiveness manifests itself in how careful Broadway is when choosing who’s allowed to visit his girl and where he takes her. Arthur hasn’t got a green light yet.

“Let’s continue,” Broadway tells Arthur over his shoulder. “Wine bottle next.”

“You don’t have to do it,” I say, when Arthur’s nodding face pales a shade or two. “Say the word and you’re off the hook. This is a lot even for me.”

“No, I’m good,” he replies, cracking his neck.

He rolls a new pair of latex gloves past his elbows then shoves the puke-and-semen-covered tennis ball into Amadeus’s mouth. The victim’s eyes go wide, watering in seconds. The muscles in his abdomen contract as the gag reflex sets in.

I doubt he has anything left in his stomach he could eject, considering the puddle of puke on the floor, but it doesn’t stop his body from heaving. Sweat coats his bare back, glistening under the clinical lights, his cock pointing down, half-hard, legs spread wide.

He swings with every nauseating tremor passing through him, screaming something incomprehensible.

“Lose the lube,” Broadway tells Arthur. “And use this.” He grabs the bottle of Bourbon we emptied, handing it over.

It’s much wider than a wine bottle.

“Shit, that’ll hurt,” Koby mutters, taking a slow swig from his glass. “I thought you’d hit your darkest when you choked that other guy with his own dick.”

“I thought using huskies was beyond fucked up,” I pipe in, goosebumps crawling up my arms at the reminder of that cold day in the middle of an Alaskan nowhere. “But this… this is a whole new level of crazy.”

Broadway’s eyes darken a notch, his knuckles paling as he takes a sip of Bourbon, pushing aside whatever memories are clouding his head.

“They deserved much worse for what they did to Violet.”

I don’t disagree, but I don’t agree, either.

I have no experience with these things. I have no idea what it’s like to fall in love. To care about someone the way Carter cares about Hailey, and Broadway about Violet. How should I know what it feels like when your girl gets hurt? I tried imagining it, but imagination rarely matches reality.

If this is Broadway’s definition of justice, if it helps heal the trauma plaguing Violet, then who am I to say anything other than “I’m here for you”?

Broadway, Koby, Carter… they’re my family. They will always be the most important people in my life. I owe them everything. If keeping Broadway company with a glass of Bourbon while Violet’s rapist gets a taste of his own medicine is what he needs from me, then count me in.

“Is Carter coming by to watch the show?” Koby asks, focusing on Broadway instead of the macabre sight thirty feet away.

Arthur’s hands are shaking like crazy as he grabs the bottle. How the fuck he plans on fitting it inside Amadeus is anyone’s guess. It looks impossible from where I stand.

“I doubt it. Hailey’s caught a cold. She’s feverish and he’s probably losing his shit,” Broadway says, humor clear in his tone.

I can’t help the chuckle falling from my lips. He says it like Carter’s behavior is bat-shit crazy. Out of the ordinary. Incomprehensible.

Can he not see he’s just as fucking crazy about Violet?

Since they found out she’s pregnant, he’s cranked his obsessiveness to infinity. I’m pretty sure he’d crawl out of his skin if Violet caught a cold right now.

A blood-curdling wail cuts the air. We look at the tortured man hanging from the car lift, the upper half of his body angling upwards while he braces against the wrist bindings. It’s like a scene from a horror movie, his body unnaturally angled, spine making such a sharp U it’s a miracle it hasn’t snapped yet.

“It fit,” I comment. “I didn’t think it would.”

“You learn something new every day,” Koby laughs, the sound devoid of humor. “I think he likes it.” He points between Amadeus’s legs where his cock is hard, precum dripping from the tip. “I thought torture wasn’t supposed to feel good.”

“A straight, homophobic guy is orgasming while being raped with a Bourbon bottle,” Arthur narrates the scene, his tone full of hatred. “Believe me, his body might be reacting to the stimulation, but he’s not enjoying this. I’m pretty sure he’d cut his own throat if you gave him a knife.”

“The one covered in his shit?” Koby asks, tone bitter because his gift has been violated. “He can swallow it for all I care. It’s not like we’ll use it again.”

I turn around, setting my glass down beside my open laptop, quickly checking the software running in the background. It’s been trying to locate Bianca for two months without success.

I asked Jackson for help last week, but even with another pair of hands on deck, we’re still looking for one girl in a country inhabited by almost three hundred and thirty-five million people.

One consolation is that Bianca and Vaughn haven’t crossed the border. The face-recognition software would’ve caught it. Either from border control cameras or passport photo scans.

Bianca and Vaughn are still in America, but the longer I look, the less probable it seems I’ll replace them.

“Why do you think Vaughn’s taken her on the run?” Koby asks, jutting his chin at my laptop. “It doesn’t make sense. She’s not in danger, right? Why drag her along?”

“Just because Carter doesn’t pose a threat, it doesn’t mean Noretto or Grey aren’t after her.”

“Why would they be? She’s not part of this world. She’s only connected via Vaughn and Hailey, and she doesn’t even know them. Vaughn already gave Octavius the evidence. He has nothing left to give, so why run? Why drag the girl with him?”

I’ve been thinking about this for a while. “She’s his insurance policy, I guess. There’s no way anyone can grab Hailey, but Bianca… she doesn’t have the security Hailey does, and she can be used as blackmail.”

I run a hand through my hair, distracting myself from the screaming, whimpering guy thirty feet away. Arthur’s right hand moves back and forth, his fingers grasping the neck of the bottle as it fucks Amadeus fast and hard.

I’ve witnessed a lot of gore in my life. Elaborate torture methods, murders, blood, death… you’d think I’d have a limit. To be fair, I thought this would be it.

But Amadeus opened his mouth, proving me wrong.

The homophobic slur he spewed earlier hit hard. Added one more unforgivable sin to the list. And if being a homophobic piece of shit who rapes women isn’t enough, when Apollo came by an hour ago with more Bourbon, Amadeus proved he’s also a racist. He deserves every second of this torture. He’s still not getting a fraction of what he dished out to Violet.

Forgive me if I’m having a hard time mustering an ounce of sympathy for the guy. Let him scream. Maybe this lesson will mesh with his soul, and he’ll reincarnate as a decent person.

I down the last of my Bourbon. Broadway immediately fetches another bottle, filling my glass to the brim like he knows I need some numbing.

“You should quit that shit,” I tell him when he shoves a cigarette between his lips. “You want to reek of smoke when you’re holding your baby?”

He pauses, pinning me with a pointed stare. “I have time.”

The whimpers cease for a few seconds before a guttural groan fills the room. Amadeus comes, emptying his load on the filthy floor, his body shaking with the orgasm. It’s probably shaking with fear and exhaustion too.

“What’s next, Broadway?” Arthur asks, checking the metal table for options.

Before Broadway can bark out instructions, his phone interrupts the moment.

“Hey, baby. What’s wrong?” he answers immediately, eyebrows shrinking in concern. The hint of worry disappears, replaced by pinched lips holding his smile at bay. “Sure. Give me twenty minutes.” He cuts the call, turning to Arthur. “Keep him here until you’ve tried everything on the table. If he loses consciousness, there are a few boosters in the bag.” He points toward said bag. “One injection will keep him awake for six hours. Don’t overdo it or his heart will give up. We don’t want that. I’ll be back within the hour. Keep him alive.”

Arthur nods, yanking his latex gloves off and heading across the warehouse to a small restroom. The water starts running, followed by furious scrubbing. He emerges five minutes later, drying his hands and arms with paper towels.

Broadway’s long gone, the smirk on his face as he left enough to explain why Violet summoned him home. The girl is insatiable these days, horny and hormonal. Broadway hit the jackpot with the random-hour booty calls.

He’s her personal fuckboy and absolutely loves it. Given how long it took Violet to enjoy sex again, I can’t blame him for being at her every beck and call.

“You think you can spare a glass of that?” Arthur asks, pointing at the Bourbon bottle. The full one Apollo brought, not the one he was using on Amadeus.

Arthur’s not as pale as he was when he arrived. An hour of torture must’ve hardened him up a bit.

“Have the bottle,” I say, holding it out.

He takes a swig, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Quite the christening,” he comments. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I won’t fuck this up.”

Koby downs his drink. “We know, but we’ve been in your shoes before. Your first time’s never easy. Having company helps. Besides, it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

He doesn’t say it aloud, but the look crossing his face tells me he’s grateful we’re not leaving. I’ve been there.

My first torture session under Carter’s and Broadway’s watch lasted four hours. I still remember the screams, the smell of blood that gushed out of the man who stole from Dante Carrow.

It baffled me that he thought he’d get away with it. No one who’s ever wronged Dante has got out unscathed. The man is a machine, designed to kill. Designed to rule the underground.

And Carter’s the same these days. He craves power. More now he has someone he’d do anything to protect. Someone he’s willing to die for.

I don’t derive that much pleasure from hunting and hurting people. My biggest weapon has always been my brain.

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the occasional shitstorm.

I prefer using my fists than my gun, though. There’s something freeing about inflicting pain with my bare hands. A level of personal connection a gun doesn’t offer.

Still, I’m a tech guy and my hands stay relatively clean. Bruised knuckles were fun a few years ago, but the older I get, the more I appreciate my assigned role in Carter’s ranks.