Too easy.

Oh well.

One down, two to go.

Jeremy is going to be in for a shock when the state picks him up tomorrow after he returns from camp.

Greg’s snores shake the house, which is why I don’t bother to keep my steps silent as I trudge downstairs. He has absolutely no idea that I’m right behind him as he leans back in the recliner with his hands folded over his beer belly.

I loom over him, just gazing at him as if I were God looking at his creations. Damn, he’s so ugly I almost feel bad for Millie. There’s no way I’d survive if I had to see his face on top of me or willingly pop out a baby with his genetics. So, what I’m about to do is basically community service, something I, thankfully, didn’t have to do along with my sentence. Everyone should be thanking me for getting rid of him and his piece of shit son.

With that thought in mind, I slip behind him on the couch, wrap a belt—the one I’ve seen him use on my Bella—around his neck, slot it through the buckle, and pull.

From my vantage point, I can see his eyes snap open as he automatically reaches for his neck to wrestle away the item stopping his breathing. His face burns red under the artificial light from the TV. I leverage the angle of the couch and use my weight to keep him right where he is.

I’m so fucking glad I’ve been gymming. Maybe I should consider going back to prison so I can really focus on my fitness. That would mean I won’t have Bella, though, and that simply isn’t an option in my book.

He’s out within ten seconds, but I don’t let up until I hit twenty. I want him unconscious, not dead, not for what I have planned for him.

My grip on the belt loosens as I step in front of him. The only sound in the house comes from the commercials blaring on the TV while I drop my gaze to his stomach and groan silently. This is the part I was dreading.

With a heavy sigh, I grab his ankles and pull. No, “pull” isn’t the right word. Heave is more accurate. He lands on the floor with an unceremonious thump, and I drag him along the floor, then pause midway to stretch.

Okay, maybe I need to hit the gym more often, because I’m seriously struggling. The guy from earlier has nothing on Greg. The old man has to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds.

Inhaling sharply, I summon more energy for the home stretch. The momentary break from lugging him around is short-lived because I still have to get his big ass onto the stool.

I scrunch my nose and hold back bile when I lean down and basically bear hug him. The amount of body odor on this man is criminal. I’d kill him just for poor hygiene.

It takes me more tries than I care to admit just to get half his ass off of the ground and onto the chair. At this point, I’m more worried about blowing out my back than waking someone up from carrying around this asshole.

I get as much distance from him as I can once he’s secured on the seat. What’s tragic about this is that I can’t open the window to get rid of his stench. Maybe I could hose him down?

No. No time.

Springing into action, I lay all my tools out on the table, tie him up, and slap a healthy length of duct tape over his mouth. Then slap him in general, just for fun.

Marcus comes next. Again, I don’t bother keeping my steps silent as I storm up the steps. He’ll be far easier to deal with than his father.

Quietly, I open the door to find him shirtless in his bed.

Marcus might be strong, but he’s the type of skinny that you worry might fly away during the breeze. Back in the day, he used to be somewhat attractive—at least, that’s what the girls would say. I don’t see it; never really did, either. But I don’t know where his father’s genetics went because other than the big nose, they look nothing alike.

That was back in Marcus’s youth, at least. Poor posture, crooked teeth, and greasy hair with a topping of predator make up what he is today.

Like I said, community service.

I rinse and repeat the process with him by using one of his own belts to knock him out. Getting him down the stairs is easy. He’s so light I could probably throw him over my shoulder to make less noise. It’s just so much more satisfying seeing his head bob and his body roll around helplessly when I throw him down the stairs.

I’ve always wanted to do this.

It doesn’t take much to hang him from a beam while frantic noises sound from behind me. As if there’s some father-son magic going on, Marcus wakes up before I have a chance to tape his mouth shut.

He gapes at me like a fish while his dad screams under duct tape behind me. “Who—What—"

I slap duct tape over his mouth. “Missed me, asshole?”

I hum to their begging, taking my time to walk up to the dining table where my tools lay on full display. My fingers dance, pondering which instrument I want to use tonight. Hammer? Pliers? Saw? Knife? The options are endless.

Knife, I decide. Can’t beat the classics.

I push the blade into the tip of my finger without breaking my glove, glancing back at Marcus. I ignore Greg, who’s uselessly trying to get out of his restraints, desperately screaming until his face flushes in rage.

I remove Marcus’s tape. “Roman. You’re—you—" He stumbles over his words. His attention darts to the knife in my hand, and the color drains from his skin. “You shouldn’t be out.”

I grin and cock my head to the side. “Shouldn’t I?”

Fuck yeah, I shouldn’t be. I don’t know how the hell Rico’s lawyer managed to shave half a year off my sentence, yet here we are.

He gulps, and the rise and fall of his chest becomes more obvious. “You still have three months.”

My brows hike up—not that he’d be able to see past the mask. I may have left the part about my freedom coming earlier than expected out of my letters. “And how would you know that?”

“The letters you—" He shuts his mouth.

There it is. “Did Isabella share them with you?”

He doesn’t respond, but I know the answer is no. Bella wouldn’t share them with him—or anyone—unless someone held a gun to her head. I creep closer until the blade grazes his skin. He jerks away from the knife, only to swing right back to me. “Look, man—" he stutters.

“What did you do with the letters?” I ask in a friendly tone, focusing my attention on the knife as I swirl it over his skin.

He squirms. “I don’t remember.”

I click my tongue. “Are you sure you want to lie to me, Marcus?”

“I swear, I—"

My hand clamps over his mouth while I dip the blade into him. Blood blossoms beautifully against his pale skin, despite his thrashing and pathetic attempts to get away. “Do I need to ask you again?”

He shakes his head and mumbles something. Greg continues his fruitless struggles to save himself and his son behind me. If I don't wrap this up soon, they’re going to wake Bella.

“I’m going to move my hand, and you’re going to be a good little boy and not make a peep unless I tell you to. Isn’t that right?” I say as if I were speaking to a child.

He nods like a blubbering mess.

“Where?” The one word makes him shudder.

“Under my bed,” he whimpers as crimson drips from the wound on his stomach.

I stiffen. Excuse me? Is he saying that he took my letters away from her or that Bella never received them to begin with?

“Tell me, Marcus.” I speak as if I’m amenable enough to reason, like there may be a possibility he walks out of here alive. “What are the letters doing in your room? And I wouldn’t lie if I were you.” I wave the blood-stained knife in front of his face as a warning.

Tears well in his eyes while switching his attention between me and his somewhat unharmed father. “We, uh.” He takes a ragged breath. “We saw Isa got mail, and we, um.”

I don’t need to turn around to know that Greg is shaking his head. “Yes?” I graze the tip of the blade along his chest.