Chapter 8. Dylan. 

Dylan's POV. 

The echo of my footsteps was the only sound in the dimly lit corridor as I led the newcomer deeper into the clan's dungeon. The air was damp and thick with the metallic scent of blood, mixed with that faint hum of the fear that lingered like a permanent resident. The walls, lined with chains and archaic iron tools, bore the weight of history only whispered about. 

“This…" I said, my voice low and calculated, " is where we remind people of the consequences of betrayal.” my words were calm but the undertone carried the sharp edge of a knife. 

The man nodded rapidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His bravado from earlier had melted away the moment we descended those stairs. The dungeon had that effect—it stripped away masks, leaving people with nothing but their raw, trembling truths.

Liam, my ever-annoying second-in-command, leaned against the rusted iron bars of one of the cells, a cigarette lazily hanging from his lips. “Really laying it on thick today, aren’t you?” he drawled, smirking as he exhaled a puff of smoke.

“Not now, Liam,” I said, my tone flat.

“Oh, come on, boss,” he said, pushing off the bars and strolling over. “You’ve got the whole ‘ruthless tyrant’ act down to a science, but do you ever wonder if maybe you’re overdoing it? A little charm wouldn’t kill you.”

I shot him a cold glare. “Charm doesn’t keep people in line. Fear does.”

Liam raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by my mood. “Fear works, sure. But you know what’s even scarier? A smile. The kind that says, ‘I could kill you, but I’m choosing not to—this time.’ That? Terrifying.”

I ignored him, focusing instead on the arms dealer, who was now sweating profusely. “You want to work with me, you follow my rules. No deals with my enemies, no double-crossing, no lies. You break any of those, and you end up here. Do you understand?”

The man nodded so quickly it looked like his head might fall off. “Y-yes, Mr. Griffin. I understand completely.”

Satisfied, I turned to Liam. “Take him upstairs. Make sure he knows where the boundaries are.”

As the dealer scurried away under Liam’s watchful eye, I lingered, staring into the darkness of the dungeon. It wasn’t the screams or the bloodstains that held my attention—it was the memory of her.

Mia.

She’d walked into my life like a storm and left me standing in the rubble. Four years. Four years, and I still couldn’t shake her from my mind. She had been a fire—fierce, untamed, and utterly intoxicating. And she had outplayed me, escaped my grasp like smoke slipping through my fingers.

“Still thinking about her?”

Liam’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He was back, leaning casually against the doorframe with that infuriating smirk.

“Don’t start,” I warned, my voice low.

—

The screams of pain bouncing around the cemented walls are getting a tad annoying. Sometimes it sucks being the best fighter and enforcer. I really fucking enjoy hurting people, but tonight, I have no fucking patience for this wimpy asshole. 

I know how to wait for what I want most. But when I'm trying to get some real answers and the dude's too busy shitting his pants and crying to give me a coherent response, I get a little testy. 

“This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball,” I warn, " I'm not even going to show you any mercy and shove it straight through your brain.” 

" Fuck man," he cries, “ I told you that I just went to the warehouse a few times. I don't know anything about some fucking deal or when it's going to go down.” 

" So, you're useless is what you're saying.” I surmise, inching the blade towards his eyes.

He squeezed them shut as if the skin no thicker than a centimeter was going to prevent the knife from going through his eye.  

Fucking laughable. 

“No, no, no." He pleads, " I know someone there that might be able to give you more information.” 

Sweat drips down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His overgrown, greasy blonde hair is matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess he's not actually blonde anymore since most of it is painted red now. 

I already ripped off three of his fingernails, a couple of stabs wounds in specific locations that wouldn't allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count. 

Dickhead wouldn't be getting up and walking out of here that's for damn sure. “Less crying, more talking." I bark, scraping the top of the knife against his still-closed eyelid. 

He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his lashes. “H–his name is Freando. He's one of the operation leaders organizing meetings with different gangs to meet the higher-ups. B–basically runs the whole thing there.” 

“Freando what?" I snap 

He subs, " I don't know, man.” He wails " He just introduced himself as Freando.” 

“Then what does he look like?" I ground out impatiently through gritted teeth. 

He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips. “Mexican, bald, has a scar cutting across his hairline, and a beard. You can’t miss the scar, it’s pretty fucked looking.”

I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It's been a fucking long day. “Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him slowly for the past three hours.

“Y-you’re letting me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray puppy dog.

“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.” 

He looks down at his severed heels, knowing just as well as I do if he stands, his body will go pitching forward.

“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my arm back and plunge the entirety of my knife through his pupil.

He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet. Or rather, his one eye. “You work for my enemy," I say softly, though he's no longer capable of hearing me, "

I won't kill you now; I'll kill you later, so why stress myself and not do it now.”