Vegas Pete- Between the Law and the Lost

Ch-4 The night

The afternoon sky outside the minor house mansion was thick with clouds, mirroring the darkness within its walls. In the basement, the air was heavy with the stench of blood, sweat, and fear. Vegas crouched beside a barely conscious man, whose once vibrant life was draining away with every shallow breath. Blood pooled around the man's body, spreading like a dark, twisted river on the cold concrete floor.

Vegas worked with practiced precision, his knife sliding effortlessly through flesh, slicing the man's skin with a terrifying ease that spoke of experience, not hesitation. The man, gagged and bound, could no longer muster the strength to scream; his voice had long since been reduced to ragged breaths and weak, broken moans. His eyes, wide and filled with terror, flickered with the last remnants of life as Vegas carved into him, slow and deliberate, as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat.

Vegas didn't rush. He savored the act, each slice of the blade through skin and muscle a testament to his control. He relished the way the man's body jerked and spasmed involuntarily, the blood seeping out in waves, warm and sticky against his gloved hands. The man was a betrayer, and in Vegas's world, betrayal demanded punishment beyond death—it required suffering, degradation, a stripping away of dignity until nothing remained but the raw, primal fear of a man who knew he was about to die.

Vegas didn't even blink as he made another precise incision. But then, he noticed the man's body go limp. The pathetic, weak pulse he had been monitoring for signs of life had faded into nothingness. The man's chest no longer rose or fell. The light had left his eyes, his soul finally succumbing to the brutal torture. Vegas paused, staring at the lifeless body, a flicker of irritation crossing his cold, emotionless features. He sighed, a mix of disappointment and satisfaction. "Four days," he muttered, wiping his knife clean on the man's shirt. "You should've lasted longer."

Standing up, he stretched his back as though he'd just finished a workout, allowing himself a small, satisfied hum. His lips curled into a cruel smile.

He turned to the guards. "Clean this up," he ordered, his voice flat and devoid of any humanity. The guards, too afraid to meet his gaze, nodded quickly and hurried to obey, moving the lifeless body with the efficiency of men who had done this many times before.

Vegas left the basement, the sound of dripping blood and the scuffle of boots echoing behind him as he ascended the stairs. He was heading to his room for a shower when his father, Gun, appeared, blocking the hallway.

"Vegas," Gun barked, his tone sharp. Vegas responded with a simple, "Yes."

Gun's sneer twisted his face. "So, you don't even bother calling me 'father' anymore?" he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. His eyes narrowed, locking on Vegas like a predator sizing up weak prey.

Vegas remained silent, his gaze steady, simply looking at his father.

Gun's face contorted with anger, his voice rising as he stepped closer. "Without me, you're nothing, Vegas! You're just a worthless piece of shit riding on the Theerapanyakun name. No one would look twice at you if you weren't born into this family!" His words were sharp, intended to cut deep, to wound.

Vegas stood there, his face blank, eyes cold. He didn't flinch. He didn't care. "Are you done, Father?"

Gun's fury boiled over, and with a swift motion, he slapped Vegas across the face, the crack of it echoing through the hallway. Vegas didn't flinch, didn't even blink.

"You worthless shit," Gun snarled. "Look at Kinn! Look at him! Learn some respect from him," Gun hissed, his voice shaking with rage. "Take note of how he obeys his father's words like a mantra. Unlike you, he's not a disappointment."