Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(37)

He wanted more.

Always more.

Same as me.

Everything he asked me to do, I did.

Everything he requested had a reason.

A reason bigger than just Pure Corruption. Bigger than trading. Bigger than both of us.

We both wouldn’t stop until we brought about a revolution, and that revolution was on the horizon.

Wallstreet gave me a dynasty to oversee.

Mo came into the room after completing another patrol around the grounds. “Brothers are in place, Kill. I’ve set up a rotation of three Pures to stake out the house—they’ll share the workload. No other * is breaching this place.”

My head was the weight of a damn skyscraper but I nodded in thanks. “Appreciate it.” I trusted Pure Corruption far more than the hired security firm from before.

Bastards.

They’d get an ear-bashing and a lifetime of bad press after what they let happen.

“In a few days, we’ll arrange a better alternative.” Mo stalked across the small sitting room where we’d taken up residence while waiting for Cleo. “Perhaps you could move to the Clubhouse for a bit—until this is all done and f*cking dusted?” Helping himself to the open bottle of whiskey, he poured a generous shot and knocked it back.

Glancing at Grasshopper, he shook the bottle. “Another?”

Hopper shook his head, wiping his mouth. “Not for me, dude.”

Turning to face me, Mo said, “No doubt the next few weeks will be full of war. Best to rest where you know you have reinforcements.”

My blood thickened. “Not war …” I grinned coldly. “Genocide.”

Grasshopper reclined in the single leather chair he’d commandeered. Tipping his glass in my direction, he cocked his head. “Exactly. Genocide.”

An utter bloodbath.

There would be no more waiting around. No more putting chess pieces into play and striking off a never-ending to-do list. That had been systematic and time-consuming. This would be swift and archaic.

And at the end of it, my revenge will be sated. Wallstreet’s goal completed. And Cleo cemented in my future.

If she forgave me, of course.

My stomach contorted into a knot.

Wallstreet’s plans meant I inherited larger and complicated tasks the more successful I became. In the scheme of things, my father was a f*cking fly needing to be swatted with my shoe. He’s inconsequential.

Nothing would tax me more than what Wallstreet and I’d been working toward all these years. I couldn’t afford to be ill.

“By the way. We found him.” Mo fisted his glass.

“Who?” I rubbed my temples, hoping to dispel some pain.

Mo took a swig of his drink. “Adam ‘Alligator’ Braxton—the cocksucking snitch who infiltrated us and started this f*cking mess. He was staying at Dagger Rose.”

The * had bolted before we’d had time to apprehend him. But running and hiding wouldn’t save him.

Nothing would save him.

He’s already dead.

Mo ground his teeth, dragging a finger across his throat in the sign of execution. “He’ll pay when we catch up to them.”

The door cracked open and Doctor Laine entered. Her eyes skimmed over the wall where a blown-up map of the world hung. I’d stood for hours at a time staring at islands and cities, wondering where Cleo might be if she hadn’t died that night.

Her gaze drifted to the small cluster of seats all placed on a deep turquoise rug that looked like an oasis in a sea of white tiles.

“How is she?” I asked, leaning forward to place my glass on the kidney-shaped coffee table. The distance wasn’t much. My arm span was more than enough to place the glass safely on the table. But somehow … I missed. The lip of the wood caught the liquor, tipping the entire thing upside down and drenching the carpet.

“Fuck!”

“Hey, it’s okay, dude. I’ll grab a rag.” Grasshopper leapt to his feet. The damn man had guzzled copious amounts of whiskey over the past two hours but still looked completely sober. Me, on the other hand? I hadn’t touched a drop and I was the one f*cking spilling things.

Damn this headache!

The doctor cleared her throat, her eyes taking everything in. “She’s fine. She’ll have a headache for a few days, but her vitals are good and eye dilation perfectly normal.” Moving toward me, she added, “She also took a shower. Without the blood covering her, I was able to assess and make sure there were indeed no lacerations or wounds.” She smiled gently. “She’ll make a complete recovery, and I’ve sent her to bed.”

I slouched in my seat, no longer caring about the spill. “Thank God.”

Grasshopper came back with a rag, throwing it on the carpet and stomping on it with his dirty boots. Dried mud rained every time he trampled the absorbent cloth.

I was too exhausted to care.

The doctor peered at me. “Your impairment is worse than I thought. Your friend said you checked yourself out of the hospital a few hours ago—but I wasn’t advised how bad you are.”

My forehead furrowed. “What do you mean? Just ’cause I spilled a bit of whiskey?”

“No, because you’re slurring.”

The world stopped still. “What?”

“Shit, man. You are,” Mo muttered. “Thought you were just tipsy, but you haven’t touched a drop.”