Page 8 of Trading In A Broken Heart

Behind closed doors?

We made problems disappear.

The lights from the monitors reflected across the black walls while I stared at the senator again.

People always thought men like me were loud. Explosive. Easy to spot. They never understood the real monsters rarely raised their voices. I didn’t need to. The room shifted the moment I walked into it.

Ghost tossed the folder in front of me. Inside were pictures, bank statements, phone records, and photos of the senator with underage girls.

Pathetic-ass nigga.

Men destroyed themselves so easily.

“You want him dead?” Ghost casually asked.

I studied the picture for a moment before closing the folder. “No.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow.

I stood from my chair slowly, buttoning my suit jacket.

“Dead men don’t suffer.”

A dark grin pulled at Ghost’s mouth.

He damn sure understood exactly what I meant.

I walked through the warehouse with my hands in my pockets while men scattered out of my way. Nobody made eye contact with me for too long. Smart decision.

Fear was necessary. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that sat in your stomach and kept you awake at night. The kind that made grown men double-check locks before going to sleep.

One of the guards opened the steel door leading downstairs.

The screams started before I even reached the bottom step. I paused halfway down. My ears perked.

The man strapped to the chair was already crying when I entered the room. Blood covered his mouth, and one eye was swollen shut.

Sad.

He started rambling the second he saw me. “Please—please listen⁠—”

I pulled black gloves over my hands slowly. “Everybody begs when consequences are involved.”

His entire body shook worse than a bad stripper. “I got kids . . .”

“So do cemetery plots.”

Ghost laughed quietly behind me.

I crouched in front of the man ’til we were eye level. “You stole from somebody under my protection,” I said softly. “That makes you a liability.”

“I can pay it back⁠—”

“This stopped being about money an hour ago,” I told him. I didn’t know why they always thought begging was gon’ get their asses out of a situation.

Tears flowed faster down his cheeks. I hated crying. Shit was weak, wet, and annoying.

I grabbed his jaw hard enough to make him whimper.