KEENAN
"Pass me a cigarette," Keenan muttered, peeling off the blood-slick latex gloves with a wet snap. One of his men was already there, lighter ready. Flame kissed the tip; Keenan inhaled deep, eyes closing as the first drag burned down his throat. Tension bled out of him in a slow, gray plume.
He turned, gaze locking on her.
Amanda lay sprawled across the concrete, two neat holes in her chest, one clean through the forehead. Blood pooled beneath her like spilled wine, dark and glossy under the harsh fluorescents.
"Bishop, what about the bodies?" one of the men asked.
Keenan's lips curved not quite a smile, more a predator's satisfaction. He didn't look away from her.
"Clean her up. Every print, every fiber—gone. Cut her in half." His voice was calm, almost bored. "Top half to Knight. Bottom half to Veronica. Wrap them pretty. Make sure only they open the boxes."
The men nodded, no flinch, no hesitation. This was every day normal for them.
They moved like a practiced crew: rolling out plastic, dragging the other corpses aside, starting the grim work on Amanda. Knives glinted. Saws hummed low.
Keenan leaned against the wall, smoking slow, watching without a flicker of remorse. His eyes were flat, empty mirrors.
A few hours later
"Bishop, we're done."
Keenan pushed off the wall and walked into the prep room. Amanda or what was left of her, lay on the steel table, pale and bloodless, drained with surgical care. Top half intact, bottom gone. Skin almost translucent under the cold lights.
He stopped beside the table, staring down at her face. Still beautiful, even in death.
"You played your part perfectly," he murmured, voice soft almost tender.
His hand lifted, fingers hovering just above her dark hair, close enough to feel the chill rising off her skin.
"Bishop, not advisable," one of the men warned quietly, arms red to the elbows.
Keenan's gaze flicked to him. The man dropped his eyes instantly.
Keenan withdrew his hand, but not before pulling the silk ascot from his own neck, brown, expensive and knotting it loosely around hers. A lover's gift on a corpse.
His fingers lingered a second longer over the fabric, then fell away.
"Box the top half, head, torso, arms. Make it pretty. Deliver to Knight's estate before dawn. He opens it first."
A nod.
"Bottom half to Veronica. Same care. Let her unwrap it herself."
Another nod.
"Burn the rest. No traces."
He took one final drag, crushed the cigarette under his boot, and walked out. Faint red prints followed him across the concrete, prints that would vanish by morning.
Outside, night air cut sharp and clean. He slid into the back of the waiting black SUV.
"Send one of the girls to the penthouse," he told the driver, eyes on his phone. "The new brunette. Make sure she looks like her."
The car pulled away without a word.
Thirty minutes later
The penthouse door clicked open.
She stepped inside, barely twenty, long dark hair, wide, nervous eyes. She knew the rules: no names, no questions.
"Clothes off," Keenan said from the shadows of the bedroom, voice flat, almost bored.
She obeyed, hands trembling as fabric hit the floor.
He didn't watch her undress.
He was already hard.
Already somewhere else.
"Bend over."
She did, gripping the edge of the bed.
He entered her without warning, without prep, one brutal thrust that tore a cry from her throat. His hand wrapped around her slim neck from behind, fingers digging in, squeezing just enough to make her gasp, vision spotting at the edges.
He closed his eyes.
And it wasn't her anymore.
It was Genesis.
Pale skin. Dark hair spilling over the sheets. Her body arching beneath him, not willing, not fighting, just his.
His grip tightened. The girl whimpered, choked sobs mixing with broken moans as he fucked her harder, deeper, punishing.
In his mind, Genesis's eyes were wide, lips parted, tears slipping down her cheeks as he claimed her completely.
He pulled out at the last second, flipping the girl over roughly. She barely had time to breathe before he came, hot, thick stripes across her face, her mouth, her closed eyes.
She lay there shaking, mascara running, lipstick smeared.
"Get out," he said coldly, already turning away.
She scrambled for her clothes, sobbing quietly as she fled the room.
Keenan didn't watch her go.
He walked naked into the living room, poured himself a drink, and waited.
A soft knock.
One of his men opened the door.
"The kid's here, boss."
Keenan's lips curved into a slow, genuine smile.
He dressed quickly, black shirt, slacks, no tie and stepped into the dimly lit living room.
There, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, hands bandaged and trembling slightly, was Jaden.
His once-confident eyes were hollow now. Broken.
Keenan's smile widened, warm and welcoming, like a brother greeting family after too long apart.
"Nice to see you, Jaden," he said softly, voice rich with false affection. "It's been a while."
Jaden looked up, anger flickering across his face.
"Why… why did you want to see me?"
Keenan sat across from him, leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes gleaming.
"Can't I just want to see my little brother again?"