Jericho's POV.
As always, the bastard was wasting his night at another strip club, drinking, laughing, flirting with women, while his wife worked herself to the bone just to keep their pathetic marriage afloat.
I watched from the corner booth, smoke curling from my cigar as he slid bills down another dancer's thigh. The money she'd earned. The money my mate had bled for.
He didn't even flinch at the thought. Just grinned, his ring glinting under the neon lights as he whispered something in the woman's ear.
"Should I go get him?" Raphael's voice broke through the haze of my anger. He was already restless, checking his watch like the idiot had somewhere better to be.
I turned slowly, about to ask what his damn hurry was—only to see him already crossing the floor.
Before I could say a word, Raphael grabbed Antonio by the collar and slammed his fist into his face. The sound cracked through the music like thunder.
Blood sprayed across the table. Gasps echoed.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at my lips.
Now that's my brother.
Raphael dragged Antonio off the floor like a rag doll, ignoring the blood spilling from his nose. The man struggled, cursed, threw a sloppy punch that barely grazed Raphael's jaw. Pathetic.
He dragged him across the floor toward me.
"Having fun?" I asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Antonio froze the moment his eyes met mine, like a rat cornered. His lip trembled, blood trailing from the cut Raphael's fist had opened.
"Jericho," he stammered, his breath uneven. "This—this isn't what it looks like."
I leaned back in my seat, legs crossed, the low hum of the club fading behind me. "Isn't it?"
Raphael shoved him down onto his knees, one hand gripping the back of his neck. The music had stopped, the dancers had scattered. Only the neon lights flickered, washing the room in a red glow.
I studied him for a moment. "You have a habit of showing up in places you can't afford, Antonio. Remind me, whose money are you spending tonight?"
He swallowed hard. "I—I was just—"
"Drinking," I interrupted, my tone calm, measured. "Gambling. Touching women who aren't your wife." I tilted my head, feigning thought. "Meanwhile, she's at a club across town, breaking her back to pay for your little hobbies."
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. "Not that I give two fucks about your excuses, Antonio, but tell me one thing…"
I reached out, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him closer until our faces were inches apart. His breath reeked of whiskey and fear.
"Do you have my money ready?"
He froze, throat bobbing as he tried to speak, but nothing came out. Just the faint sound of his heartbeat pounding in his chest.
My grip tightened. "Answer me."
"I—I just need more time," he stammered finally.
"That's what you said two months ago."
He tried to look away, but I caught his jaw in one hand and turned his face back toward me. "You really think you can keep lying to me, Antonio?"
"I swear—"
The back of my hand met his cheek before he could finish. The sound cracked through the room. His head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his split lip.
He blinked, dazed, tears mixing with blood. "Please, Jericho—"
I tilted my head, studying him for a moment, then slapped him again—harder this time. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to remind him who held the power.
"That was gentle," I murmured, wiping my hand on a napkin Raphael offered. "Don't make me lose my patience."
"Boss?" Raphael asked from behind him, his tone eager, waiting for the order.
I leaned back, resting my elbows on my knees once more. "Take him," I said quietly.
Two of my men stepped forward immediately, each grabbing one of Antonio's arms.
"Lock him in the truck," I added.
Raphael grinned and nodded. "With pleasure."
They dragged him across the floor, ignoring his kicks and pleas. Blood dripped onto the polished tiles, leaving a trail behind him.
I didn't bother watching him go. I'd seen that look a hundred times before—the realization that begging never worked with me.
"Clean this place up," I told the bartender, tossing a few bills onto the counter. "And if anyone asks…" I glanced back, eyes cold. "…this never happened."
The man nodded frantically.
Raphael approached, wiping blood from his knuckles. "Where to now?"
I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissolve into the dark. "Home."
A pause. "To his home."
*****
"Jericho, please. I will pay back, I promise I can pay it back". I didn't even bother looking up as I drew in another smoke, waiting. Patiently waiting for my mate—his soon to be ex wife.
"Brother?" I turned to Raphael. "You can leave, Raph". He gave a quick bow and nod before walking out
"Bring him here." I gestured with the gun. They obeyed. Two men hauled Antonio forward, his bruised body folding in on itself.
"Please…" he rasped.
I pushed the barrel under his chin and lifted, forcing his face up. "Seven months, Antonio. Seven months and then another two. Doesn't your wife make enough at that club?"
"Please…" he rasps.
I bring the butt of the gun down hard across his jaw. The sound snaps. Blood beads at his lip. "When I ask you a fucking question, you answer not beg. Whether you beg or not, you're not making it out alive".
I was about to speak again when the faint chime of an anklet reached me. My wolf growled low in my chest. Heat climbed my spine. My cock hardened before my brain could catch up. She's here.
The door opened. She froze in the frame. Her face—pale, then red, then white—was a map of the worst kind of shock. She took it all in: the men, the blood, the gun, the man on the floor. Her mouth opened and closed.
For a beat she did not move. Then her eyes found mine.
I smiled, slow and soft, the kind of smile that did not match the room. "Ah," I said, as if greeting an old friend. "You're home."
Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled on the strap of her bag. Every instinct she had screamed to run, to scream, to collapse. I watched the war in her face and savored the moment of collapse before it happened.