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Vincent stood at the window of his home office, a sleezy smile creeping across his face as he watched Tora’s red sports car turning into the long driveway of the villa. He swirled his whiskey in the glass before taking a sip. Tora stepped out of the car after it was parked, and Vincent rolled his eyes. Jeans and a Henley. How many times had he told that boy to dress presentably? They’d discuss that today too.
He made his way back to his desk and sat, the rich leather groaning as his weight settled into it. Taking another sip of his drink, he opened the desk drawer and removed the photos Martin had handed him the week before. He began thumbing through them for the fiftieth time.
She was certainly pleasant-looking, this tiny brunette who had seemingly won the heart of his right hand. Busty, curvy, and a pretty face. Had she been a part of their world, or from the right family, he might have even thought to encourage the relationship. He had been almost upset about the rumors that Tora was gay. He was good stock, and with the right match could potentially produce a son or daughter that could take his place as the Bathulman right hand one day. With the proper training, of course.
This woman, however, was nothing but a civilian, if Martin’s information was to be believed to be correct. Simple, low-class, and with no connections or social-standing. She was, however, his new leverage over his dog.
Tora had become a bit of a wild card lately, and Vincent couldn’t let that stand. Public displays of violence against his own, the back talk, the insubordination, employing and training his own men without permission. He needed to put the boy back in his place—needed to show him that no man was above Vincent Bathulman. He picked up his drink and settled further into the chair as Tora stepped into the office.
“You wanted to see me?” Tora began. Vincent wanted to roll his eyes again as he watched him casually lean against a marble pillar, his arms crossed. Even Martin, a seasoned member of the clan, knew that when you were in Vincent Bathulman’s presence, you stood tall, you made eye contact, and you spoke with the utmost courtesy. Yes, the man needed to be taken down a peg.
“Yes, my boy, I wanted to discuss a few things with you. Have a seat.” His words were not a suggestion, though it was clear that Tora was taking them as such as he continued to remain slumped against the pillar. Tora reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket as he answered. “Been sittin all day. M’fine where I’m at.” Vincent sighed heavily and fisted his hands, trying to maintain composure.
“Son, I believe I have mentioned that you are the only man who dares speak to me like you do and lives to tell the tale, have I not?” Tora nodded, his gaze not leaving Vincent’s as he lit his cigarette. Vincent stood and swiped the photos off the desk. “And do you feel that gives you special privileges to do so? Do you think you are above everyone else in this clan? That you are above even me?” Tora just stared back, his beastly, dead eyes showing no signs of fear as he took a long drag of nicotine. Vincent waited for a response and huffed out a small laugh when he got none.
“I see. Well, I called you here today to remind you who I am, Tora. I am not just your boss. I am your master, and you are my dog, and will respect me. Remember what happens to a dog who goes against his master, boy.” He glared at Tora, his fists balling once again as he watched in disbelief as the man dropped his cigarette on the multi-thousand dollar Persian rug and stub it out with his foot.
“Sounds fuckin peachy, Vince. We done here?”
Vincent almost lost it. Almost reached for the man to throttle him with his own hands. But he was above that kind of aggression. He glanced at the smoldering butt burning a hole into his carpet and took a deep breath. He had other weapons. It was time to use them. He huffed out another laugh and leaned back against his desk, carefully flipping through the pictures in his hand until he found the one he wanted. He held it out in front of his face and smiled.
“She quite a looker, this one.” He waved the photo nonchalantly without looking up. “A bit small and simple perhaps, but I can certainly see the appe—” his thought was cut off by a knife at his throat. He looked down at the handle and recognized it as his own. He tapped at his breast pocket and found it empty. How the fuck did he get my knife?! How did he move without me seeing him?! He stopped thinking, however, when he felt the cold nozzle of a gun against his temple.
Vincent breath came out ragged despite his best efforts to maintain his composure. He glanced up at Tora and his breath got stuck in his throat when he caught a glimpse of the wild man before him. No wonder he was so comfortable being called a beast. This man was indeed some sort of animal. He gulped, feeling the blade press tighter against his skin as his throat bobbed. After a second, he found his voice again.
“W-what do you hope to accomplish with this? Do you think killing me is going to help your situation? There are ten armed men on the property right now…”
He shouldn’t have stammered.
“You wanted ta talk, Vince, then let’s talk,” he heard Tora breath into his ear. The shudder that followed was involuntary and Vincent cursed himself at the fear he felt. Tora stared back at him, his demonic yellow eyes burning hot as he fingered the trigger, the knife grazing his Adam’s apple delicately. Expertly.
“Ya know the first time I had a gun to my head I was nine? I talked back to ya. Remember that, Vincent?” Tora continued when the older man gave a weak nod. “Hearin that ‘click’ when ya take the safety off is scary as hell, but then the bullet drops into the chamber—” Vincent could hear just that happening against his skull, and the metallic clack caused a cold sweat to break on the nape of his neck.
“You tortured me, Vincent. Ya beat me, ya belittled me, ya put me in a fuckin cage. Ya called me an animal, a dog, a demon, a beast, and now here ya are shittin ya pants surprised as hell that I’m bitin the master’s hand.” He scraped the knife against his skin.
“Ya know how many people I’ve hurt for you? Killed for you? This would be nothin for me. So fuckin easy…” He pushed the gun further into Vincent’s temple, causing the mob boss to lean away, the knife at his throat sliding softly, trailing a sliver of blood behind it.
“Ten men, Tora…”
“Ten men that would be dead, Vincent. I could snipe the two guys in the garden right now. Put bullets in the heads of Martin and Claude on the other side of the door without even opening it; I know exactly where the fuck they’re standin. I’d just bottleneck the whole lot and drench this whole house in fuckin blood and piss and shit like you’ve made me do to a dozen other houses; then I’d start pickin everyone else off, one by one.”
“Y-you wouldn’t do that…”
“Don’t underestimate what I’d do for this woman, Vincent,” Tora answered as he pressed the knife further into his throat, blood coating the edge of the blade. He twisted the butt of the gun hard against Vincent’s skin. “…so fuckin easy…”
Vincent decided to focus on the man in front of him to distract his bladder from losing all control. Good god was he big. Had he always been this big? His eyes brushed over the bulging tattooed arms and made their way to the crest splayed across his thick neck. He remembered the day Tora received his mark. He had made the boy put a bullet through the head of some bastard who tried to skip out on his debts. If he was remembering correctly, Tora was only fourteen at the time. His eyes widened when he remembered he had chosen that day specifically. It was his birthday; one he never wanted Tora to forget. He cleared his throat.
“What do you want, then?”
“I feel like that’s pretty fucking obvious, Vincent. You forget her name, you forget her face, and ya make FUCKIN SURE that anyone else who knows about her does the same.”
“Done.”
“Ya god damned right, ‘done’. I’ll keep doin ya dirty work. I’ll keep protecting ya fuckin son. But you stay the hell out of my life. Ya think ya had some kind of upper hand with these pictures didn’t ya? Ya think you were gonna use em to keep me leashed a little longer, but guess what? I wanted ya to see em. I wanted Claude to spot us, cos I want you to know that you don’t got the hold on me like ya think ya do.” He paused as he took in Vincent’s wide eyes.
“If I see one of ya goons again, if anyone even so much as breathes in her fuckin direction, I won’t just take them down, I’ll come after you too. I’ll hunt ya til the day I die, Vincent. There won’t be nowhere in the world you can hide from me. Ya feel?” He removed the knife when he saw the nod of acceptance, but kept the gun in place. He stared down at the aging man and removed the nozzle from his temple, only to place it under his chin. “So. Fuckin. Easy.”
“Tora, son…” Vincent gulped and closed his eyes as he whispered ‘please’ under his breath. Tora just leaned into his ear again and whispered back. “Don’t forget, Vincent Bathulman. You made me.”
Vincent opened his eyes when he felt the gun leave his throat, then started when he saw Tora was already at the door, the gun tucked safely in his waistband. How the fuck does this bastard move like this? He didn’t have a chance to answer himself, however as he was distracted by the whoosh of a blade slicing through the air, nicking his ear before it hit the wall behind him with a tunk!
The men made deep eye contact for a moment, then Tora turned and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Vincent took a deep breath and fingered his bloodied ear and throat. His head was swimming, his ears buzzing as he slowly made his way to his chair and sat down ungraciously. He eyed the photos on the desk, then stacked them up neatly.
He looked at the cute girl with the sassy printed tee and a muffin and coffee. He looked at the smile spread across Tora’s face, and at their fingers intertwined across a café table. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips thinking of what to do. He was under no illusion that Tora was capable of doing what he claimed he could. Afterall, Vincent had trained the boy himself. He’d spent over a decade crafting him into the perfect living weapon. The Bathulman Clan would be nothing without The Tiger. He took a deep breath as he decided to let his dog keep his toy.
Vincent reached into his desk and pulled out a lighter, clicking the top open before running the flame across the edge of the stack of paper. He tossed it on the desk and picked up his whiskey with shaky hands, taking a small sip before dumping the rest onto the small fire, watching as the flame grew, the edges of the photos blackening and curling until they were nothing but ash.