Chapter Ten

Cutter

The chill of the undercover garage seeps into my bones as I lean back against the cracked leather seat of our nondescript van. The blacked-out windows offer us the anonymity we need. Sean fiddles with something on his wrist, probably a blade or some lock-pick gadget. Logan's eyes, sharp and calculating, don't miss a thing. Tyson stands by the sliding door, his face a mask of resolve that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Remember…" I start, my voice steady as I fix my gaze on Tyson, "… you just get her down here. We will handle the rest."

Tyson nods, a rigid jerk of his head. "No complications," he says, though it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than inform us.

"Carlotta Vaughn won't know what hit her," Sean adds, a dangerous glint in his eye.

With one last glance, Tyson steps out of the van and disappears into the belly of the building. The heavy door thuds closed behind him, and we're left in a silence that buzzes with anticipation.

"Does he really own this whole building?" Logan asks, and I nod at him. "Think he can pull it off?"

"He's got no choice," I reply. "He knows the stakes. It's personal for him, too, after what happened to Beathan."

"Revenge is a powerful motivator," Sean muses, almost philosophically. But there's an edge to his voice that speaks of blood and retribution.

"Tyson's not one of us, though," Logan points out, leaning closer to the window as if to see through the walls themselves. "You think he understands what needs to be done?"

"Doesn't matter if he does," I say, eyes on the van's rearview mirror, where Tyson's figure should reappear with Carlotta in tow any minute now. "He'll play his part because he knows we're not asking. We're telling."

"Damn right," Sean says, a smirk pulling at his lips.

We settle into a watchful silence, each of us lost in our thoughts about the impending snatch. I can't help but wonder how far Tyson will go when push comes to shove. Will he embrace the darkness needed to see this through? Or will he falter, a liability in our midst?

I shake off the doubt. Tyson is in this deep, and there's no turning back now for any of us. And Carlotta Vaughn is about to learn that the hard way.

"Hey, Cutter," Logan's voice cuts through the silence. "How's Elaine holding up?"

I can't help but smile at the mention of her. Elaine is scared of everything but me, which is weird. When we are together, she seems relaxed, almost grateful to be in my presence.

"She's good," I say, the words rolling off my tongue like a tender caress. "Planning to cook something nice for dinner tonight." As I speak of mundane domestic bliss, a part of me relishes the thought of making her happy and finding some normalcy.

But underneath, in the dark recesses of my mind where shadows play, I know I'm far from the average guy with a nine-to-five and a white picket fence dream. The thrill of the hunt and the taste of fear are addictions no sweet smile or warm meal can cure. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing, and Elaine is the unsuspecting lamb I've taken under my wing. Yet, I want to believe I can be more for her.

Sean cocks his head, studying me with eyes that have seen too much. "You're different with her," he observes, a touch of surprise lacing his tone.

Logan smirks, shaking his head as if he's heard the funniest joke. "I don't get it, man. Why didn't we just off Elaine? She's a loose end."

My hand tightens on the steering wheel, and my knuckles go white. I snap, the friendly fa?ade cracking. "Because Kyle said so," I growl, the name of our president carrying all the weight of an unchallengeable decree.

"Kyle's word is law," Sean says quickly, a hint of caution in his voice, recognizing the dangerous edge creeping into mine.

"Exactly," I affirm, clamping down on the rising aggression. Kyle made his call, and we fall in line. It's how our world works. "Besides," I add, my smile returning, hollow and cold, "Elaine's proven… useful."

"Useful's good," Logan concedes, leaning back against his seat.

"Useful keeps you breathing," I finish the thought, my gaze flickering back to the mirror.

The chatter in the van cuts short, a silent signal that something has shifted. Sean's hand comes down on my forearm with a muted thud, fingers pointing through the blacked-out window. I follow his gesture, and there they are—Tyson and Carlotta—walking through the dimly lit garage. They're engrossed in conversation, her hands move with each word, painting the air with her seriousness. Yet, her eyes don't flicker with suspicion or fear. She's clueless about the trap she's sauntering into.

"Showtime," I mutter under my breath, an anticipatory shiver running down my spine as I watch them draw nearer.

Logan is already moving. The door swings open with a smoothness that belies our tension, an unspoken command rippling through us. We fall into our roles—Sean slips out of the van just as Tyson nudges Carlotta toward him. She stumbles slightly, confusion blooming across her features for a mere second before Sean's arms clamp around her, securing her from escape.

"Sorry, love," Logan says, though his voice is void of any remorse.

From over Sean's shoulder, Logan presses a rag damp with chloroform against her mouth and nose. Carlotta's muffled gasp is the last bit of resistance she offers before her body goes slack in Sean's hold. Together, they hoist her into the back of the van as though they've done it a thousand times.

"Neat and tidy," Logan grunts as he slams the van door shut, sealing Carlotta inside our darkened world.

Sean gestures to the security cameras in the garage. "What about those?"

"Disabled for a maintenance check. They'll come back on in another hour."

Sean cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows. "No one will suspect foul play?"

"No. I'm the boss, and I asked them to do a sweep. It's something I do from time to time. We're good. It's normal."

Tyson brushes a hand against the van's cold metal frame. He locks eyes with me, a silent plea etched into his rigid features.

"Don't do anything to Carlotta until I've had a chance to talk to her." His voice is steady but edged with an urgency that doesn't quite mask the unfamiliar tremble beneath.

I hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, letting the weight of his request settle in the dense air between us. Then, I flash him a grin, all teeth and no humor. "You got it, Tyson," I reply, the lie rolling off my tongue as smooth as velvet.

He nods, seemingly satisfied. The van door closes with a soft click, the finality of it echoing in the cramped space.

I watch him as he stands there, eyes cast down, lost in his thoughts. My grin fades, replaced by the familiar tightness that coils around my thoughts like barbed wire.

"I don't take orders from a suit," I murmur to the empty air, my voice laced with a venomous disdain that would have made Tyson's blood run cold if he'd heard it. But he can't hear me, and there's only us—the predators and our prey, bound and unconscious in the belly of our beast.

The van rolls into motion, the engine's growl a low purr against the symphony of New York's chaos. In the rearview mirror, Tyson's figure shrinks, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck—a universal sign of exasperation or maybe regret. He shakes his head as if to dispel an unpleasant thought and pivots back toward the building.

"Can we trust him?" My voice cuts through the rumble of the moving vehicle, eyes still locked on Tyson's retreating form in the mirror.

Sean turns to look at me, his gaze steady and unflinching. "Yeah," he answers with a nod, the lines of his face hardening like concrete. "She tried to kill Beathan. Tyson's aware of the stakes."

Satisfied, I spin the wheel and steer us further into the maze of the city's heart.

Logan's hands are methodical and precise, looping rope and zip ties around Carlotta Vaughn's wrists with practiced ease. She's in her fifties, but her appearance speaks of meticulous self-care—manicure flawless, makeup impeccable despite the disarray of our actions. Logan's movements betray no recognition of her dignity—she is just another job to carry out.

Her eyelids flutter open as he secures the last knot, revealing the sudden alarm in her wide, startled eyes. Logan grins down at her like a predator baring teeth to its prey. He shoves a rag into her mouth, cutting off any chance of a scream, sealing it with tape that stretches into a cruel imitation of a smile across her face.

"Shouldn't have gone after the kid," I say, my voice flat, detached from the reality of the woman bound and gagged before me.

Logan pulls a hood over her head, casting her world into darkness.

Our mission is clear—revenge is not just an action but a statement. And for Carlotta Vaughn, it's one she'll hear loud and clear.

The dust behind the van swirls like dirty ghosts as we pull into our usual spot, a godforsaken patch of land that's far enough from prying eyes. It's wrapped in silence, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of wind through the scrub brush. We're miles from anywhere, the perfect place to party or to get rid of problems like Carlotta Vaughn.

Sean's the first one out, slamming the van door with a finality that sounds louder than it should. Logan follows, both of them striding with purpose toward the back doors. They fling them open and haul Carlotta out like she's no more than a sack of feed. Logan pulls off the hood, and she winces as her eyes adjust to the light. Then her eyes go wide, darting from the pit to us, the terror plain to see.

"Easy," I say, stepping out and stretching my legs. "You're going in the hole, Carlotta. Best remember to bend your knees when we drop you, or it'll hurt something fierce." My words are casual as if I'm giving advice on how to jump into a swimming pool instead of a grave.

She's shaking uncontrollably, whether from fear or cold. I don't care. With a flick of my wrist, I unsheathe my knife. The blade glints briefly before I slice through her bonds, freeing her limbs but leaving the gag firmly in place. A muffled whimper escapes her, and I can almost taste the sweet tang of her desperation.

Logan and Sean each take an arm, their grips ironclad. On a silent count, they hoist her backward, letting go at just the right moment. She falls, her body twisting in a feeble attempt to follow my advice. There's a dull splash as she hits the bottom.

We stand there, listening. After a moment that stretches too long, her cries bubble up from the darkness below, muffled but frantic.

"Shout all you want," I call down, leaning over the edge with a grin. "No one's around to hear you." I let out an evil chuckle, rich with mockery. "Oh, and watch out for the rats."

The sound of her sobs rises, tinged with hysteria now. There aren't any rats, but the fear of them will gnaw at her just the same. Fear is a funny thing—it doesn't always need to be real to do its damage.

We turn our backs on the pit, the distant whimpers fading as we stroll toward the building where the rest of the club throws down. The gravel crunches under my boots, a satisfying sound that matches the rhythm of my heart.

"Rats?" Sean's voice cuts through the stillness, his eyebrow cocked in my direction.

I chuckle and shrug, letting the lie sit comfortably between us. "No rats. But let her mind play tricks on her in the dark. She deserves it for taking Beathan." My words are cold, the truth in them colder still.

Sean's lips pull into a tight line, but he nods, understanding the game. His woman, Beth, could have been hurt when Carlotta's men took the boy. It's an unspoken rule—an eye for an eye.

The three of us step into the building's warmth. It's another world in here when the MC is partying, one where Carlotta's pleas don't exist, the rules are different, and loyalty to the brotherhood is everything. Kyle will be out here after dark, and then Carlotta's fate will be sealed.

As I make my way to the bar, the thought of Elaine creeps into my head. I wonder what she'll have on the stove when I get back. Her cooking is a comfort, no matter the chaos of the day.

But as I sink onto a barstool, the image of Carlotta shaking and terrified at the edge of the pit doesn't even flicker in my mind. There's no room for sympathy, not for her when she crossed the line. I take a long swig of my beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down my throat, washing away any lingering traces of the evening's dirty work.

Yeah, whatever Elaine has got cooking will hit the spot because out here, in this life, you can't afford to care too much. That's how you survive. That's how you keep ruling the roost with an iron fist and a heart just as hard.

And me?

I've got demons aplenty to make sure it stays that way.