Eros
I pace across the basement beneath a recording studio we own on the south side of the city, snarling like a tiger.
Hector Constantinou hangs by his wrists from a reinforced steel pipe, blood dripping from his beaten and mangled face, his shirtless torso turning purple from the bruises blotting his flesh.
My muscles ache. My fists burn from where the flesh was scraped off, smashing Hector's ugly face over and over. I've been working him for the last hour, ignoring his pleas to stop, ignoring everything but his pain.
Hate flows from me like a flood, and I don't know how to stop it.
I don't know if I want to.
I tilt Hector's chin up and make him look me in the eye. He's a big guy, older, in his early forties. The kind of Khazan family lifer that would've been happy sitting around a
