“I almost wish I hadn’t gone down the rabbit-hole… and yet… and yet…”
They cart him to the meeting in a wheelchair. To call this humiliating would be a massive understatement; Vegas isn’t even allowed to change; he’s still wearing his pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt. He hasn’t brushed his hair, he hasn’t even shaved; the stubble is clearly visible. He looks like hell, not at all like one of the flawless Main family Theerapanyakuls. And that is precisely why they are doing this to him. This is just another power play between his uncle and his father, and Vegas resents them both for it.
The Main family mansion is an interior design masterpiece. Everything is perfect here, even the servants are immaculately dressed. Not to mention the countless bodyguards he is pushed past; everyone is pristinely groomed, wearing a suit, and Vegas is paraded in front of them, like just another Minor family thug: watch out, don’t get too close, you might get lice.
If only he’d had more time to prepare. Vegas is at a severe disadvantage here; he’s still a mental and physical wreck, hasn’t eaten anything today and just went through a gruelling therapy session that still has him reeling internally. This is bad, really bad.
Everyone’s staring at him. With his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ mask in place, Vegas leans back casually, as if the wheelchair is a royal palanquin. Let them stare. He will just pretend not to care (but he cares, oh he cares).
And yes, they parade him around. Vegas knows this house and the route they’re taking to the meeting room is much longer than it should be. Those bastards. But they arrive at last. One bodyguard opens the doors, and another pushes Vegas’ wheelchair into the room.
They’ve picked the boardroom for this meeting, with the huge black table framed with gold, and the expensive leather seats grouped around it. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow the afternoon light to filter into the room, making the blue silk wallpaper on the walls shimmer. There are several body guards of course, from both families. And seated at the head of the enormous table is Korn Theerapanyakul, like the spider in the middle of his web.
Vegas instinctively tenses up as his gaze falls on the person sitting to Khun Korn’s left. He hasn’t seen his father for years. This is the first time they’ve met since he moved out. The instant their eyes meet, Vegas feels like a ten-year-old boy again, and a sliver of fear runs through him.
His father has aged well. He’s still wearing the beige suits he is so fond of. And of course there is the neckerchief; silky and expensive and very flamboyant. Just like his father. Vegas swallows hard. His father’s icy gaze drills into him, and Vegas shrinks deeper into his wheelchair before he can stop himself. Damn.
And as if this wasn’t bad enough, there is Kinn, seated to Khun Korn’s right. Perfect Kinn. Of course he is here, his uncle needs to rub it in—how different his son is from the Minor family failure that is Vegas. It stings. Vegas shouldn’t care about this, but he does. His pufferfish spikes pop out reflexively; Kinn he can handle, and so he ignores the two older men and sneers softly at Kinn, who glares right back at him.
“Well if this isn’t a lovely family get-together of fathers and their favourite sons. Sorry for being late to the party—it seems I took the scenic route here,” Vegas remarks sarcastically.
“Watch your mouth, boy!” his father growls sharply at that snarky remark, and hits the table hard with the palm of his hand; Vegas jumps a bit and gasps fearfully. He can’t help it, it’s straight back into old behaviour patterns, it seems. I’m an adult now, he tries to remind himself. These are different times. Surely his father will not hit him in front of his brother and nephew. But still… Vegas shudders and glances warily at him.
“Vegas, so good to see you’re finally doing better.” Uncle Korn gives him a gentle, fatherly smile but his dark eyes are hard as steel.
To an outside observer his uncle must look like a mild-mannered elderly gentleman; there is always that faint, gentle smile on his face—he looks like someone’s favourite grandfather. The dress pants are Armani, as is the white shirt underneath the dark grey cashmere vest. The platinum of the Main family ring on his hand shines in the sunlight. And of course there is a damn chessboard on the table. Uncle Korn love his chess games, especially when he plays with his immediate family members serving as the chess figures. He might look kind and unassuming but Vegas is scared of him, and for good reasons.
“Uncle Korn…” Vegas gives the older man a respectful nod in greeting, and tries not to shift nervously in his wheelchair. If he openly shows them his anxiety, they will attack relentlessly. “Thank you for taking such good care of me since I arrived here. I appreciate it a lot.”
His uncle and father exchange a look that sends a shiver of dread down Vegas’ spine. Shit. What are they up to now? Something is clearly going on.
His uncle smiles benevolently. “Now that you’re leaving your depression behind, clearly ready to rejoin life, your father and I decided that this would be a good time to have a discussion about your plans for the future, Vegas.”
Oh shit. Vegas glances quickly over to Kinn. His cousin is pretty good at keeping an unreadable face, but Vegas is sure he is just as clueless as Vegas about where this conversation will be heading. So they didn’t tell Kinn, interesting.
Vegas looks pointedly down at his wheelchair before facing the two older men again. “I don’t think I’m anywhere close to rejoining life, and I believe my therapist would disagree that I am over my depression. Maybe we should postpone this talk until I’m actually feeling a lot better than now?”
“You are not catatonic—you run your mouth just like I remember, so I do not see any reason for you to continue talking to a therapist,” his father rebukes him sharply
“You’re a Theerapanyakul, just suck it up. You don’t need to be pampered, you need to be kept busy, otherwise you’ll never get out of this wheelchair.”
Vegas tenses instinctively and ducks his head. There are a lot of things he’d like to say, he even opens his mouth, but the words desert him as soon as his father narrows his eyes, giving him a dark look. All these years, and the all-encompassing fear of his father hasn’t lessened at all. Fuck. He’s so fucked.
“If you think sitting in a wheelchair is your safe card against disciplinary actions, I will gladly teach you otherwise,” Khun Gun reminds him icily, apparently having sensed the brief spark of rebellion welling up within his son, and Vegas’ doesn’t doubt his words. A wheelchair won’t stop someone who has no problem kicking his thirteen year old son who is already curled up on the floor in a fetal position.
“Uncle Gun…” Kinn looks slightly disturbed by the direction this talk is going and tries to insert himself to diffuse the tension.
The nerve. That it is Kinn trying to save his ass leaves a very bitter taste in Vegas’ mouth. He swallows hard and someone manages to find the courage to mumble hesitatingly, “I’m an adult now. I’m recovering from a life-threatening gunshot wound. And you want to beat me right in front of everyone here, Pa?”
“Vegas.” It’s Khun Korn’s turn to speak up it seems. Just one word, quiet and yet forceful.
And Vegas clams up again. The spark of defiance snuffed out instantly. His hands tighten anxiously around the armrests of the wheelchair. That was a stupid move, he should have stayed silent, now he’s upset Uncle Korn as well. Vegas is afraid of his father, but he is truly terrified of his uncle. With good reason. There are some horrific rumours making the rounds about the head of the Main family.
Unable to face any of them, Vegas glances at the huge windows, wishing himself far away from here. This fucking family… the resentment and bitterness bottled up inside of him are trying to choke him. The adults in his life should have protected him, but no, his uncle always turned a blind eye during his childhood. Different versions of the Theerapanyakul ‘tough love’—both cruel.
When the silence stretches until it is grating on his already frayed nerves, he risks a wary glance at his uncle, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The fact that his father is staying silent, apparently biding his time, and that his uncle still has a smile plastered across his face even now scares the hell out of him. What are they up to?
This is why he stayed away from this damn family. They expect total obedience from him at all times, no questions or objections allowed, and he hates it.
Vegas clears his suddenly dry throat. “What do you want? Can we get this over with already? I’m really tired.”
Khun Korn is still smiling at him as he pulls something out of his pocket and lays it on the table in front of him. It’s a USB stick and Vegas is getting a very bad feeling about where this is going.
“As I mentioned before, we’re here today to discuss your future, Vegas. Now that your health is improving, we need to plan ahead for when you go back to work. You’ve had plenty of time to get settled in your job. The time has come for you to be an asset to this family.”
Shit. Just as he expected. Vegas gulps, his throat suddenly dry as he eyes that USB stick as if it were a loaded gun. It might as well be one; this is a far worse weapon than a gun.
“Ah… If this is what I think it is, I think I have to respectfully decline…” he says hoarsely.
“Who said you’re in a position to decline, Vegas?” his uncle reminds him gently. “Quid pro quo.”
“For what? For being nursed back to health after being shot? Isn’t that something a family should do without demanding payback? Or for being born into this family? Which isn’t something I had any say in either?” Vegas slowly shakes his head. “Let’s just keep things as they are: I won’t go anywhere near anything family-related while working, and you just pretend I don’t exist.”
“I told you he wouldn’t do it.” His father can’t help but smirk, leaning back in his chair and looking entirely too pleased for Vegas’ liking.
“It must run in your family, you and your son clinging to the misguided belief that you actually have a say,” Uncle Korn admonishes his brother lightly, giving Vegas a steely look. “You’re a Theerapanyakul, Vegas, and you will do exactly what I want you to do. Let’s get some facts straight: I allowed you to leave this family, I allowed you to become a police officer, and I allowed you to keep your job even though you at times seemed very determined to lose it by having your little violent temper tantrums. So once you’re fully healed, you will go back to work and use this USB stick whenever I tell you to do so. Are we clear?”
Vegas feels his hackles rising. Despite his weakened state, he clenches his hands into fists and narrows his eyes, as the all familiar wave of anger washes over him. A glance at Kinn, who looks pale, sitting there quietly like the perfect, obedient crown prince that he is, and Vegas remarks bitterly, “Still thinking you’re in charge, dear cousin? Got anything to say in the matter? Oh never mind, I don’t need you to parrot your father’s words.”
Kinn huffs in outrage, but oddly enough stays silent. Vegas doesn’t give a fuck. His attention goes back to his uncle.
“I refuse to be a dirty cop. Find someone else to do your bidding, Uncle Korn. I actually do have a moral compass; maybe I’m the only one in this rotten family, now that my mother is dead. I’m not perfect, but I take my job seriously. And I will not be involved in anything illegal.”
“Oh Vegas…” His uncle shakes his head, smiling, while picking up one of the chess figures from the expensive marble chessboard, eying it closely. Vegas never played chess; he has no idea if this chess piece is supposed to be a metaphor for him, and frankly, he doesn’t care.
“I see that you still have a lot to learn when it comes to the power structure of this family. It seems we have been coddling you a bit too much all these years. A word of advice—don’t fight if you cannot win.”
“I’m not one of your damn pawns, Uncle Korn.” Vegas grits his teeth. He’s so angry he’s seething. But he’s also scared. There’s nothing he can do. He can’t just get up and walk out of here. He is all on his own in enemy territory, and right now the odds are against him. His father is still silent, which also grates on Vegas’ nerves. Silence is a really bad sign when it comes to his father.
“Yes you are, Vegas,” Korn once again corrects him. “You will do exactly as I want. Or did you really think Chan would clean up your recent crime scene without documenting it first, and keeping some of the evidence involved?” His uncle clicks his tongue and slowly shakes his head. “You might have gotten rid of the body, but I have more than enough circumstantial evidence to make your life extremely difficult from now on.”
Vegas stomach drops. Oh no, he fucked up really badly! He should have known better than to trust his family. Oh no! Then another panicky thought flashes through his mind before he can stop himself. Pete! They mustn’t find out about Pete! Immediately he pulls himself together again, swatting away that thought. He cannot allow himself to be distracted now.
“Wow… So we’re reverting to blackmail now, huh? I can really feel the deep love in this family, it’s so heart-warming.” The betrayal leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He looks at his cousin but Kinn averts his eyes. Yup, he is totally on his own. Fuck. Vegas swallows hard. “I think you are bluffing. Getting me into trouble with the law would mean that you wasted all these years waiting for me to get into a good position in the police department in order for you to use me as your pawn. You won’t jeopardise that.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His uncle shrugs and plays with the chess piece in his hand, twirling it in his fingers. “I guess only time will tell. So are you going to be a good pawn and take the USB stick, Vegas?”
“I refuse to be a dirty cop.” Vegas wants to add something rather rude about what his uncle can do with the USB stick but he holds it in. Barely.
“We’ll see about that.” His uncle shrugs nonchalantly and turns his attention back to his brother. “He’s all yours.”
Ice floods Vegas’ veins. What is that supposed to mean? Can’t be anything good. Especially not considering how his father is positively beaming with barely contained glee now. Oh no, this can’t be good.
“Korn. Kinn.” Khun Gun stands up and nods respectfully at both men before focusing his attention on Vegas. The smile he gives his son is chilling.
Vegas shudders, sinking deeper into his wheelchair as if it were possible to hide from this man.
“Time to go, boy.”
And before Vegas can even process it, his father strides past him to the door. The bodyguard in charge of Vegas’ wheelchair turns it around, and then they’re following his father’s retreating figure.
“Kinn?” Alarmed, Vegas tries to turn his upper body and head sideways to catch a glimpse of his cousin. He doesn’t even know what he expects him to do. Something? Anything? Help? But the moment Kinn opens his mouth to perhaps argue with his father, Khun Korn narrows his eyes in such displeasure that Kinn just gives Vegas a helpless look. And that is the last glimpse he gets of his cousin, because the next moment he’s already been pushed out of the meeting room. Shit.
“Where are we going?” Vegas hates how thin with fear his voice sounds. He’s clutching the handrails of the wheelchair so hard his knuckles are turning white. “Pa? Where are you taking me?”
“Home, son. I’m taking you home.” And striding through the Main family mansion, wheelchair in tow, Khun Gun starts to whistle happily.
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The drive home can only be described as awkward. Vegas is handled like a thing, not a human being. He is roughly pulled from the wheelchair and more or less thrown into the back of the car. Being as weak as he still is, he lands on the floor between the seats, groaning with pain. He can’t tell what they do with the wheelchair; the car drives off as soon as his father is seated.
It takes him several tries to pull himself back up on the seat. His father watches his struggles with a dark smirk without ever offering to give him a hand. I’m an adult now, I can deal with this, Vegas keeps telling himself, but he finds himself instinctively shying away from his father, trying to keep as much distance between them as possible on the drive home.
Home. What a joke, as if that place was ever a real home to him. Perhaps when his mother was still alive… At least there will be Macau—he comforts himself with that knowledge.
Being suddenly surrounded by people after weeks of solitude is more exhausting than he expected. He’s had no food, his body is aching from the physical therapy earlier on, and his mind is a complete mess after enduring the therapy session from hell. He feels like a complete failure once again after this disastrous family conference. Turns out he’s no match for his family. Leaning his aching head against the cool glass of the window, Vegas closes his eyes to focus. He needs to get his frantic breathing back under control. He’s hyperventilating again. He’s so damn scared and he can’t turn that feeling off. The presence of his father in the car is like a dark cloud of black energy, waiting to suck the life out of him once again. Breathe in. Hold breath. Breathe out. Repeat. Everything will be fine. Macau will be there. Everything will be fine.
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Change of plans: everything will not be fine.
When they arrive at the Minor family mansion, Vegas is roughly dragged out of the car by two of his father’s goons. He can barely keep himself on his feet. Without their support he would surely collapse, and wouldn’t that be a huge embarrassment? That also answers the question about the wheelchair: It was left behind.
Everything will be fine. Macau will be there. Everything will be fine. But his little brother is nowhere in sight when he is dragged into the main hall. There’s just his father, giving Vegas a calculating look that only increases Vegas’ anxiety. What is he up to?
“You and I need to have a talk, son. But not just yet. You’re still entirely too sassy and stubborn right now. I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind for a little chat yet.”
Khun Gun smirks once again and Vegas shudders with fear. He can’t turn the resurfacing memories off. He’s a child again, and that look on his father’s face means he is in deep-shit trouble.
“No, we need to mellow you down a bit first before our talk.”
“Pa…?” Vegas’ breath hitches.
“I think a couple of days in solitude will do you well, to collect your thoughts.” His father nods to the guards holding him up. “Take him downstairs,” he orders them softly.
Downstairs.
Downstairs into…
No.
Vegas screams and struggles as he is forcefully dragged away. “No! Pa! Don’t! Please don’t!”
But his father just chuckles cruelly, apparently enjoying Vegas’ reaction very much. And Vegas… Vegas is nearly paralysed with fear as he is being dragged towards the stairs into the cellar.
Down into the basement he goes, kicking and struggling weakly all the way. Doors open and close behind him, down down down, and then the all too familiar smell hits him, accelerating his fear. Damp musty darkness. It makes his stomach roil, he hates that smell. At some point his legs have must have given way underneath him; he is now being carry-dragged the whole way, the damaged muscles in his back screaming under the rough treatment.
Nonono. Not the cellar. Not again. Along seemingly endless, barely lit corridors with flickering lights. Past doors that can barely hold back the stench of death hidden behind them. Vegas can taste the scent of blood in the air and moans, panicky. Not the cellar. A metal door opens, creaking harshly, making Vegas flinch. And the next moment he’s tossed into the darkness beyond, hitting the concrete floor hard, scraping his palms and knees raw. He doesn’t even have time to groan with pain before the door slams shut again and total darkness enfolds him.
Vegas is almost instantly hit by a full-blown panic attack. It rolls over him like an unstoppable tsunami. Hot and cold tingles race through his veins, hitting his frantically pumping heart over and over again. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, his throat is closing up, he’s choking on the musty dampness, the darkness is strangling him.
He is 6 years old again. He can hear people screaming in unspeakable agony in the other rooms. He curls up on the floor, crying while hugging his stuffed toy rabbit.
He is 8 years old again. His mother is on the other side of the door; he can hear her fingernails scraping against the metal as she anxiously calls out to him, but no one opens the door to let him out.
He is 10 years old again. There is someone else here in the darkness with him, but that person stopped whimpering a while ago. He can no longer hear him breathing in the darkness; the only thing he smells is the coppery stench of blood.
He is 12 years old again. It’s so dark and he hasn’t had anything to drink in the longest time. He is so thirsty, but little Macau needs the water more, that’s why he only had a sip of it before giving the bottle to him.
He is 14 years old again. He thinks his arm might be broken. He can hear noises in the darkness, and doesn’t dare to sleep because if he stays still, the rats lose their fear and will start crawling all over him again, biting him.
He is 16 years old again. He will not give in. He has gotten a cough from the constant dampness. Someone is screaming horrifically somewhere in the distance. It makes him hyperventilate and he coughs some more. He will not give in. And he cries.
He’s in his 20’s now. Hurt. Broken. Exhausted. He’s an adult, but he is right back where he started. Everything in the darkness of the basement is still the same—a coppery, musty dampness he remembers so well. The people are still screaming in the other rooms. And he is still crying, curled up on the cold floor like a child, locked up once again. What a fucking failure I am, Vegas thinks. They should have just let me die.
Thankfully he still has his phone, he had put it into his pocket before they carted him off to the meeting. After coming down from that first panic attack, he remembers and switches it on, only to be bombarded by anxious messages from Porsche right away.
“He locked me up in the basement,” Vegas messages Macau and Porsche. “Stay cool, I got this. Need to preserve battery, will message once per day.”
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He keeps his word: one message per day. And according to his phone there are many days. Water bottles and protein bars is all he gets as nourishment, thrown into the cell once per day, as if it were feeding time for the zoo animals.
When they finally release him from the darkness, Vegas feels just like a feral animal. This time the cellar didn’t break him. What doesn’t kill you, makes you harder—and it turns out that being an adult and his work experience as a police officer has given Vegas a slight resilience to the horrors of the basement.
Vegas’ legs won’t carry him, so he’s once again dragged upstairs. The first thought he has when coming face to face with his father lounging in the leather seat, smoking his cigar while smirking, is how satisfying it would be to rip this man’s throat out. He can vividly envision the blood spray, the frantic noises, how immensely gratifying it would feel—and that actually scares him. This is his father after all. But still…
When the guards release their hold on him, Vegas doesn’t even try to walk over to a chair, he just sinks to the floor and sits right there, dirty and trembling with resentment.
Khun Gun sighs deeply. He seems to be disappointed. He’s always disappointed with Vegas, nothing new there.
“I see the cellar didn’t help, you still have that rebellious gleam in your eyes, son. Do I need to beat it out of you? I was hoping to avoid having to do that this time.”
Vegas hisses like an angry cat. If his father dares to try and dole out punishment right now, he will not be held responsible for his reaction. He sees red red red; he can actually taste the blood in his mouth already, and his face must be mirroring these dark thoughts because his father pauses and reassesses him, the initial smugness giving way to cautiousness.
“Why do you have to be so damn stubborn, son? Do you know that I was actually pleased with how you stood up to Korn and the Main family? Now why do you have to ruin everything once more?” He crosses his legs and blows the smoke of the cigar upward, still so damn confident and superior, as he looks down at his son sitting on the floor.
“You were only pleased with me because you thought I would fold and do your bidding,” Vegas reminds him angrily. He hates himself because a part of him still yearns for his father’s approval. “Which is not going to happen. This whole family has gone insane. May I remind you that I’m a police officer? You can’t just go and lock me up as you please. I might be your son, but I’m also a cop, Pa! Are you really willing to take on the police force just to get your will?”
“You are first and foremost a Theerapanyakul, Vegas,” his father reminds him, clearly irritated. “I allowed you to be a cop because that way you’d be an asset to this family, you would for once be useful. Just look at Kinn, how well he’s managing the business. Look how Korn respects him, how our people respect him. And then take a good hard look at yourself. What have you accomplished meanwhile? Playing at being a cop, doing other people’s bidding, being ordered around constantly, working your ass off without being appreciated and doing such a bad job that you’re always short of money. You have no friends and frequent sleazy clubs to satisfy your abnormal urges.” Gun snorts with disgust. “You even let yourself get shot. And not only that, you even had the nerve to have a full-blown mental breakdown, requiring therapy! Do you have any idea what I have to endure, how our business partners are gossiping about you behind my back? You’re such a fucking disappointment, son. They should have just let you bleed out there on the street—that would have been a mercy to you and this whole family.”
Vegas flinches hard, each harsh word hitting him like a fist. The red-hot anger bleeds away into despair because those words echo his own thoughts about himself all too well. His father has always been good at wounding him not only with his hands but with his words too.
He really is a fucking failure. He’s not even a good cop; what good cop would have fallen for a damn serial killer without even noticing it? He’s a horrible son—he hates his father and couldn’t save his mother. He is a horrible brother, walking out on the family even though he should have stayed for Macau’s sake. And he is a horrible human being for failing to instantly turn off his feelings for a psychopathic killer.
“Since you don’t want to be an asset to this family, don’t be a burden. I’m going to send you to the safe house and you’ll stay there, invisible and not causing any trouble, until I decide on your future, Vegas,” his father decides. “Don’t even fucking think about leaving without permission, or I will beat you right back into that hospital bed of yours.”
“You can’t just lock me away, I’m a cop…” Vegas argues weakly, but he feels too disheartened for any real opposition.
“And what a sorry excuse for a cop you are.” Khun Gun gives his son a scornful glance. “You’re a broken wreck and in no condition to argue with me. You have no say in this matter, so just shut the hell up.”
And Vegas shuts up. As always. It’s as if his throat closes up and any further words get stuck, forever unspoken. His father sits on his leather chair as if it were a throne, the family ring gleaming golden on his hand. The only thing missing is a damn crown. I hate you, Vegas thinks heatedly as his father starts discussing his transport to the safe house with the staff. You’re a lousy father and a despicable human being. I hate you.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
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The safe house is stunning and the scenery breathtaking. It gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘golden cage’. And Vegas is the bird inside that cage, a canary with broken wings, largely cut off from the world outside of the luxury prison. For that is what it is—a prison.
There are guards everywhere, to ‘protect’ him. After a few days, when everyone sees just how weak he still is, he gets a housekeeper who also doubles as a physiotherapist. He gets crutches as well.
Everyone is upset.
Macau rages; he isn’t allowed to visit Vegas, and for the first time he openly rebels against his father, which only gets him a split lip and bruises. Vegas keeps contact with him via mobile and is alarmed when he sees the injuries over FaceTime. He manages to get Macau’s promise to stop antagonising their father for the time being, but it’s difficult. His little brother, too, has a lot of hidden anger issues, Vegas discovers.
Porsche rages too. Apparently he had a huge row with Kinn because he’s blaming his boyfriend for not stopping Khun Korn from handing over Vegas to his father. He isn’t allowed to visit Vegas either and that really doesn’t sit well with hothead Porsche. Vegas has his hands full trying to stop him from organising a rescue mission which would just escalate things between the Minor and the Main family. Porsche rants and raves and curses, and Vegas even feels a bit sorry for Kinn, who is on the receiving end of his friend’s frustration.
Everybody is upset but Vegas. Vegas feels only feels numb most of the time.
He spends his days on the terrace in the sun, resting between his physical therapy sessions. He sleeps a lot. He takes his medicine. He just tries to give himself a pause from the shit show that is his life, in order to heal.
Soon a pattern is established. His father visits every week, apparently for the sole purpose of making Vegas feel miserable. A torrent of verbal abuse is launched at him; vicious, hurtful words that Vegas has trouble shielding against. Despite telling himself that he’s an adult now, Vegas crumbles under the onslaught. Every single time. When he finally snaps and yells at his father, he is backhanded so hard that his ear is ringing for the rest of the day. Yes, just like the good old times.
Time goes by, week after week after week of captivity. Vegas’ physical health is slowly improving and his strength is coming back. He can walk without the crutches again. He starts working out and going for runs around the immaculately groomed property, always under the watchful eyes of his guards. He often sits down by the water, fishing. Vegas has a lot of time to himself out here. The only person he interacts with is the housekeeper, and apparently she’s been told to keep her distance.
The nightmares have gotten a bit better as well. Now and then he can sleep several nights in a row without being haunted by Tem, or the monster and his victims. The nightmares he can deal with. It’s the other dreams he occasionally has that leave him completely unsettled.
Dreams of warm lips trailing over his skin, the feeling of silky hair between his fingers, memories of an intoxicating scent, fingertips ghosting over heated skin, touches that elicit small electric shocks throughout his whole body and ignite a burning lust that cannot be sated. ‘Vegas’ moans the monster in those dreams breathlessly, and that is what wakes him up every single time. His name on Pete’s lips, and the way his whole body painfully hungers for more, demanding its fix.
It’s slowly driving him insane. Give me the nightmares. Anything but this. He feels like a drug addict going through withdrawal, and it’s excruciating. The puzzle piece that was all wrong has been ripped out, and now his traitorous body insists on missing something crucial. It’s pining for the intimacy that Vegas simply wants to forget happened in the first place. He can stop himself from actively thinking about the monster, but his body remembers, oh, it remembers, every little detail, and it yearns.
In order to exorcise his demons, Vegas starts writing stuff down, just like his therapist recommended. Pages upon pages of accusations, heartache and anger. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. He writes it all down, then burns the pages and tells himself that he feels better now—and he does, until the monster moans his name in his dreams, and the whole cycle starts again.
One month.
Two months.
The more Vegas’ physical condition improves, the more volatile the weekly meetings with his father become. Vegas gets increasingly insistent about his freedom and independence, which in turn leads to more violent outbursts from Khun Gun. Bruises and a bloody nose become a weekly occurrence, and Vegas feels powerless to put a stop to it. He is in no position to avoid these weekly meetings. And he is in no position to unleash his violent urges, because this is his father after all. Their arguments get progressively surreal; they’ve left the USB stick behind long ago.
“For the last time, I’m not going to look at the profiles of these women. I don’t care if they’re the daughters of our business partners. I think you
haven’t gotten the memo, but I’m gay, not bisexual,” Vegas huffs in frustration, holding a tissue to his nose to stop the blood dripping all over the expensive wooden floor while scowling at his angry father.
His father glares right back at him. “Well, get over it. You’re the oldest son. This family needs an heir to secure our future. Do you damn duty already, Vegas. If we have a grandson before Kinn produces one, this would improve our standing a lot.”
“I think it’s highly unlikely that there will be any grandchildren from Kinn anytime soon,” Vegas points out sarcastically. “Kinn is just as gay as I am, and I doubt Porsche will have a bun in the oven unless medicine has advanced way more in the last few years than I was aware of.”
This snarky reply just gets him another hard slap to the face. “Watch your mouth, son! One way or the other you’ll be an asset to this family! If you refuse to pick one, I will choose a suitable daughter-in-law myself!” Khun Gun readjusts his silk neckerchief, checking to see that none of Vegas’ nosebleed sullied it.
His cheek will most likely bruise again; the skin burns. Vegas gives his father an incredulous look. “You can’t marry me off against my will! We don’t live in the middle ages anymore. Are you even for real?!”
…Smack… here we go again.
----------------------------------------
“You really need to be more careful, Khun Vegas,” his housekeeper advises him one day as she dresses a cut in his lip that is still oozing blood. “Why do you have to provoke Khun Gun so much? You’ll never be able to leave here if you don’t compromise…”
“Just dismiss the guards, give me your car keys and I’ll leave,” Vegas mutters, rather irritated. He thinks it’s unreasonable to expect him to compromise when it’s his father who is being an ass. He’s been tucked away in this safe house for three months soon! Three months! It’s insane! Sure, it’s better than the cellar, but three months! Vegas is running out of patience.
Does this count as a sign that he has finished healing, that he is ready to rejoin the world outside? Perhaps. His body is working just fine now; the only physical evidence of the traumatic event he’s been through are the ugly scars on his chest and back.
As for his mind? Everything is fine there too, Vegas keeps telling himself. Sure, the emotional scars are much worse than the ones on his back. And yeah, there is this constant, dull ache deep within, but Vegas has turned into an expert at ignoring that. No pain, nothing to see, move on.
He’s used these past months to pick up the pieces of himself and painstakingly glue them back together again. Since he shattered into so many fragments, it’s a slow process. Sometimes he’s amazed at his ability to fake it all; no one seems to realise that this new Vegas is barely holding himself together.
Something’s got to give, he knows that. Sooner or later a crack will appear. And maybe that’s why he’s still here at the safe house. Getting harassed and beaten up by his father is an excellent diversion from his real life problems. A rather brutal way to procrastinate instead of making some tough decisions, but so far it’s working well. Physical abuse like this he can handle.
And of course he doesn’t get any car keys from the housekeeper. Everyone is scared to death when it comes to his father; no one dares to defy him. Not even Vegas, not just yet. But perhaps soon…
----------------------------------------
“When are you going to fight back?” Porsche demands to know during their next Zoom meeting. He’s eying Vegas’ fresh bruises, visibly irritated. “This really has to stop, Vegas. Why do you allow him to do this to you? One word from you, and I will break you out of there, I swear.”
Vegas just shrugs. “Chill, it looks worse than it is. You know you can’t get involved in this, it’s a family matter. If you take any action, this could turn into a full-scale confrontation between the Main and the Minor family, and we can’t risk that.”
“I hate this!” Porsche growls passionately. “Dammit, I hate this whole mob family!”
“Don’t take it out on Kinn,” Vegas warns him. “I don’t want to be the reason for you messing up your own happiness. Trust me, I can deal with it and I will get out of here.” And when he sees his friend’s sceptical look, he adds, “Soon. I promise.”
Porsche snorts, clearly not believing a word. They change the topic, but Vegas has the feeling something’s off. They talk about nothing in particular for a while. There is a lull in the conversation and Porsche looks nervous, as if he is unsure if he should speak up or not. What the heck is going on? Finally it seems as if he has made up his mind.
“Vegas…” he starts cautiously. “I know this is not my business and that you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but are you sure everything is over and done with between you and Pete?”
Goosebumps erupt along Vegas’ spine. Why is Porsche bringing this up? And fuck, did he have to remind him about the monster? Fuck.
“Why is this suddenly a topic?” he asks warily while clenching his hands into fists.
“It’s just that Kinn and I went to the Hum Bar recently and I saw Pete there.” Porsche hesitates for a moment. “I don’t know what went wrong between the two of you, but I can tell you that he doesn’t seem to be doing very well. He was drinking pretty heavily and Yok said he’s hanging out there a lot these days.” Porsche hesitates again and Vegas’ stomach drops.
Nonono. He does not want to think about the monster. He’s fine, just fine, he has moved on. They are over and done with. He’s not interested in what the monster is doing these days, not at all. As long as he doesn’t get any emails from Arm about new bodies he can pretend that this was all a bad dream and that nothing ever happened.
Vegas swallows hard, trying to look unconcerned. The Hum Bar. Drunk Pete lounging in a leather seat, holding court, while the people around him eye him hungrily. He swallows again. “Really? Good for him. Not my business though, he can do whatever he wants. We broke up.”
But Porsche doesn’t seem convinced, and does is best to get a reaction from Vegas. “I see. I suppose it’s good that you moved on and don’t care about him flirting around then.”
…Flirting…
Vegas shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t care. This is a monster they’re talking about. A psychopath. A murderer. But the way he instinctively inhales a startled breath upon hearing this, followed by a turbulent wave of conflicting emotions, is a clear indicator that he still cares very much. Damn.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought…” Porsche sighs gently, observing Vegas’ reaction to that tidbit of information. “Listen, Pete looks like hell. He is clearly taking this breakup really hard. And you’re obviously not over the whole thing either. Maybe you should give him a chance and talk.”
Talk? Fat chance in hell! He shot me! But of course he can’t tell Porsche that. Vegas narrows his eyes. “Did you talk to him? Is that what he wanted you to tell me?”
That would be so like Pete, trying to manipulate and use his friend to do his bidding.
“Let me tell you something, Porsche: Stay the fuck away from Pete. Don’t talk to him. Don’t even look at him. I know you want to help, but this isn’t helping. And if Pete finds out that you’re in regular contact with me even though I’ve broken off all contact with him, he will literally kill you. And I’m not kidding about it. He’s insanely jealous. So stay the hell away from him; the further, the better.”
“I think you’re exaggerating a bit now.” Porsche seems a bit taken aback by Vegas’ vehemence. “I didn’t talk to him. I just saw him and figured the two of you deserve another chance, because I remember how you completely fell apart when he got shot.”
Vegas tenses all over. He doesn’t want to remember, he must not remember because remembering will cause the glue to dissolve and he will fall into thousands of pieces again. “Porsche… I am warning you,” he growls softly. “Stay the fuck away from Pete and do not mention him to me ever again. Stay out of my business. I am dead serious about this, I’m going to call Kinn and tell him to make sure you stay away from Pete as well.”
Porsche looks outraged now. “Vegas! Why would you involve Kinn? That’s a bit excessive!”
“Trust me, this is for your own good.”
Because Vegas has no doubt that Pete—no, the monster—will kill Porsche if he tries to insert himself into this mess. If only to get a reaction from Vegas, to force him to interact with the monster again. This simply can’t be allowed to happen. Porsche needs to be protected. He will not loose another friend to the monster.
“I’ve got to go, talk to you later.” And he disconnects the meeting, despite Porsche yelling angrily at him.
This is bad. Vegas feels a bit dazed, it’s almost like being ambushed. Once again the monster has managed to intrude and disturb his equilibrium. And what’s worse, Porsche might be putting himself at risk, too. Vegas trembles with alarm. Porsche mustn’t get involved with Pete, this can’t be happening. He needs to pull himself together and deal with this mess, he cannot afford to run away from it anymore. Fuck.
So he goes for a run until he’s dripping with sweat. Then, a short cool shower and a snack before he goes down to the river. Dangling his feet in the water, he gazes at the dragonflies playing above the surface of the calm, dark stream. And for the first time in months, he shoves his feelings, the whole damn mess, aside, and just looks at the facts.
He’s a cop and he loves his job. He’s reasonably good at what he does too, as long as he doesn’t give in to his anger issues. Vegas cut ties with his mob family because their shady dealings go against his inner moral compass. And the sole reason for being stuck in this golden cage right now is his refusal to turn into a dirty cop for the family. He wants to remain a good cop.
So what is a good cop supposed to do when dealing with a serial killer? He’s most certainly not supposed to fall in love with the psychopath. And that is a mistake that Vegas as a private person made. But Vegas the cop messed up big time too. He saw the madman kill Tawan with his very own eyes and not only didn’t tell anyone about it—he even cleaned up the crime scene and got rid of the body and all the evidence. He got shot and didn’t tell anyone who shot him either—he even straight out lied to his colleagues when they came to question him about it. And he hasn’t told anyone else about knowing who the serial killer is either. What a complete and utter failure he has turned out to be. His father is right; Vegas is a lousy excuse for a cop.
Can I live with this, he asks himself while watching the shimmery dragonflies chase each other above the water. If he’s completely honest with himself, the answer to that is ‘No’. It just feels wrong, it goes against his innate sense of what is right and what is wrong. ‘Vegas the cop’ cannot keep looking the other way, even if ‘Vegas the boyfriend’ wants to turn a blind eye. This isn’t just about his feelings though—this involves other people’s lives. Human beings got killed and will most likely continue to get killed if Vegas doesn’t snap out of it and does something about the situation.
It’s as if a switch has been flipped inside of him. A great calm floods him. All right then…
He has four immaculately clean crime scenes and no physical evidence pointing to the man who calls himself Pete. Chances are the monster will walk free due to lack of evidence if he tries to get him indicted for those murders.
What he does have though, is another dead body, Tawan. And an eyewitness, himself. The body is gone, but according to his uncle, the physical evidence still exists to some extent. Think Vegas, think.
Vegas feels as if he’s split in half, his boyfriend-half finally falls silent and now the cop-half is in charge, and for the time being there’s no moral conflict anymore. This isn’t going to be easy. They need to get their hands on the psychical evidence again. ‘They’ because he won’t be able to do this without the help of Macau, Porsche, and most likely Kinn as well. And to make everything 100% foolproof, they’ll need a fresh body too. Detached, Vegas analyses the possibilities and the logistical challenges lying ahead. The water feels cool around his ankles, the birds are singing, the insects humming. It’s beautiful here, so very peaceful, but it seems the time has come for Vegas to emerge from the cage.
----------------------------------------
Porsche and Macau are speechless.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Vegas?” Macau asks his brother via their joined Zoom meeting. “What the hell are you even thinking? This is insane!”
Porsche just stares at Vegas, dumbstruck. “You’re joking right? This has to be a joke. This isn’t you, the Vegas I know wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Apparently you didn’t know me as well as you thought,” Vegas replies drily. “Let me assure you, this isn’t a joke.”
“Vegas…” Macau just shakes his head. “I know breaking up with someone sucks, but I think this is going a bit too far. This is Pete you’re talking about. Your ex-boyfriend. The man you not so long ago were desperately in love with. And now you want to frame him for murder?!”
He’s told them about what happened with Tawan, but they’re having a hard time wrapping their minds around this plan of his.
“Technically I am not framing him for murder,” Vegas tries to explain. “He really did kill someone after all, I saw it with my own eyes. I just didn’t tell anyone about it. The rest is just to ensure that he really gets convicted.”
Both his brother and his best friend shake their heads vigorously.
“You can’t do this, Vegas.”
Porsche adds anxiously, “I know you’ll really regret this, Vegas, just forget about this plan.”
“Like hell I will.” No, Vegas is single-mindedly committed to seeing this through. “I’m a cop, he killed someone, I initially covered up for him and now I will set things right.”
He will not tell them about Pete being a serial killer, he just can’t bring himself to admit what an idiot he’s been not to see the signs.
“But this is Pete…” Macau tries again.
“Please stop—neither of you know Pete well. I thought I knew him well, but I was wrong. Trust me, this is the right thing to do. He killed someone, I messed up really bad, and now I have to fix it somehow. Before it drives me insane with guilt.” Vegas sighs, but then adds, with a hint of steel in his voice, “This is really the only way to put an end to this.”
“Is this why you broke up with him?” Porsche demands to know.
Vegas nods because in a way it is true. Cannot date a killer, that’s why they had to break up. Especially since the killer tried to kill him as well. And nearly succeeded.
“Yes. I’m a cop. He killed someone. We’re not compatible. Now, are you going to help me, or do I need to do this all by myself?”
“I think you are making a huge mistake, Vegas.”
His best friend frowns at him, and Vegas curls his hands into fists offscreen. He doesn’t want to argue with them. If he wants their help, he needs to hold back the anger.
“Perhaps. But it’s my decision to make this mistake and I will deal with the potential consequences. So let me ask you two again: Will you please help me make this right? Please?” Vegas looks at them beseechingly.
“I’m your brother, of course I will help. But I still think this is the wrong way to go, just for the record.” Macau sighs deeply and shrugs. “Count me in.”
Porsche continues to frown, but reluctantly nods as well. “Count me in, too. I’m not letting you do this on your own.”
Vegas exhales, he hadn’t even noticed that he’s been holding his breath. “Thank you. I mean it, thank you so much.” He is so relieved and does his best to ignore how concerned they both look. “Now, here is what I think needs to be done first…”
But as he lays out his plan, a tiny part of him, hidden deep inside, weeps quietly. This is for the best, he keeps telling himself. He can’t let a killer run around in this city. It’s for the best. He’s doing the right thing. Everything will be fine at last.
----------------------------------------
Good planning takes time. The more complex the plan is, the more time it takes, and this plan is very complex. Nothing, absolutely nothing must be allowed to go wrong. Vegas is a man on a mission. He spends his days planning and coordinating every little detail. He throws himself into this work like a drowning man clinging to a rope; as long as he constantly keeps himself busy, he has no time to stop and ponder if he really is doing the right thing.
It’s for the best, he reminds himself in those moments of doubt. He’s a cop, Pete is a killer. It’s for the best. Now that the decision has been made, he just wants to get this over and done with. He wants to pass the finish line as quickly as possible, remove this obstacle from his life once and for all. It’s for the best. And so he locks away and ignores the pain this decision causes him. Time to move on.
Porsche is responsible for getting his hands on the physical evidence that perfect Chan has collected, kept safe somewhere so that Vegas can be blackmailed with it if necessary. Vegas, Macau and Porsche have endless discussions about how to snatch this evidence away, but none are able to come up with a good solution. They drive each other crazy; tempers flare regularly. The whole plotting surrounding this part of the plan is so distracting that Vegas doesn’t even have time to get truly upset about his father’s weekly ‘motivational’ visits anymore. He just sucks it up and suffers through the abuse hurled at him, while already pondering the next hurdles in their scheme.
Eventually, and to the great surprise of Vegas and Macau, Porsche succeeds in collecting the damning evidence of Tawan’s murder. When Macau asks him how he managed to pull this off, Porsche stutters and stammers, then admits that he talked Kinn into helping him, only to flush bright red when Vegas asks him how on earth he managed to persuade his cousin to join this madness. Vegas wisely decides not to press him any further on this.
Macau, the little brat, turns out to be not at all as innocent as Vegas always thought him to be. In fact, he finds himself slightly alarmed at his little brother’s astonishing amount of criminal energy. With unearthly glee, Macau finds himself some goons to do his bidding. They need to collect trace evidence to spread at the staged scene. To be precise, they need some hair and blood from Pete.
This is where it gets dicey; the collection of the specimens must look like a normal mugging and Vegas cannot stress enough that this needs to be handled by a group. He fears that should they send just one person to mug Pete, that guy will be as good as dead. Three or four people should increase the chances of them coming out of this alive. Porsche and Macau still think Pete is basically harmless, that he killed Tawan by accident, but Vegas has seen the predator in action and knows better.
He doesn’t sleep well the night the mugging is planned for. Eventually he ends up in the shower, sitting on the tiled floor with the cool water raining down on him as he rocks back and forth. Here, in the deep of the night, he allows himself to let go. He can pretend that the tears running down his face are just the shower water. The damn emotional conflict is eating him alive on the inside; on the one hand he wants to physically hurt the monster just as badly as he himself was hurt, but on the other hand the mere thought of Pete getting injured even the slightest bit is making him nauseous with distress. It’s for the best, he tells himself, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Hours later Macau sends a report. Everything went well and Vegas feels as if he can breathe again. The goons are still alive and so is the monster; Pete just got roughed up a bit. Blood, skin and hair samples have been collected.
Porsche heads to Vegas’ apartment; since Pete was basically living there for a while there are a lot of his personal belongs left behind. Toothbrush, hairbrush, clothing; everything basically untouched since Vegas’ shooting. Vegas has given them a crash course on evidence collection so they don’t mess up and contaminate the samples.
Meanwhile Vegas gets in touch with work, sending in a note to tell everyone that he’ll be back soon. Porsche and Macau are fretting about how to get Vegas out of the safe house, but Vegas himself isn’t worried at all. Fact is, he could have left anytime really. If he puts his mind to it, who can hold him back? Those bodyguards? Dream on. His father will have to learn this the hard way, and his guards as well. But not just yet.
The body is the next problem, and something both Porsche and Macau find excessive, but Vegas insists there needs to be one. They need to make sure the monster is caught in the act. Well, they need to fake it, and fake it well. Since Vegas refuses to actually kill someone just for this, they consider stealing a body but that proves to be much more complicated than they anticipated. In the end Macau comes up with the perfect solution: they will take one of the bodies from the cellar, a fresh one. Vegas makes a mental note to have a long chat with his brother when all this is over; he is handling this with way too much enthusiasm. Vegas thinks Macau should be more thrilled about school and potential love interests, and not excitedly rubbing his hands while planning how to smuggle a fresh body out of the house without his father noticing.
Slowly over the weeks all the pieces come together. It’s the third month of Vegas’ captivity and the bird has gotten so strong that not even the golden bars of the cage can hold him back anymore. Watch out. This bird of prey is about to spread his wings and soar.
I am the fire burning desperately but you’re controlling me
Release me
Release me
----------------------------------------
Showtime.
Getting out of the safe house is just as easy as Vegas expected it to be. The guards have grown complacent over the months of his stay here. They’ve witnessed Khun Gun beating his son without Vegas ever lifting a hand to defend himself; neither has he ever tried to escape. So they’re totally caught by surprise when Vegas knocks one of them out to get his hands on a loaded gun. And with a weapon, Vegas is unstoppable. He reminds them that he is, in fact, a police officer and that they’re in deep trouble for imprisoning him here. And what are they going to do to stop him? They don’t dare harm him—he is a precious Theerapanyakul, after all. Vegas has no qualms about shooting them though… well, of course he wouldn’t kill anyone, but he doesn’t let them know that. He shoots one of them in the leg to show them just how serious he is about getting out of here. And after that they reach an agreement: he takes their weapons, keys and phones, and locks them up in one of the rooms, then takes one of their cars to get back to the city.
It’s a long drive. He takes a break after a while, parking on the side of the road to call Porsche and let him know he’s on the way. The sun has gone down, a beautiful blood-red sunset. As red as Vegas’ bleeding heart. It’s for the best. After that phone call with Porsche, Vegas takes his phone, and with a heavy heart starts texting the monster.
‘I’m back. Let’s meet, I think we should talk. V.’
Now and then some cars drive past while Vegas sits inside the car, the window rolled down, the evening breeze ruffling his hair, eyes closed as he waits. After a while, there is a pling from the phone.
‘Took you long enough. Yes, let’s talk, I’m sure you have a lot of questions.’
Then, after a moment, a second message.
‘I missed you.’
Vegas swallows hard while reading this and takes a long, shuddering breath. His wound aches… no, his heart. Both of them ache terribly. It’s for the best, he tells himself sternly, once more. With trembling fingers, he types his reply.
‘Are you busy or do you have time tonight? ’
The reply comes immediately.
‘I’m free. Are you at home? I can drop by in a while’.
Home. The ache in his chest intensifies. Vegas doesn’t know if he can ever go back to living in his apartment, full as it is of bittersweet memories now. He’ll have to move; there is no other way.
‘No way. You shot me, you’re not getting into my apartment anytime soon. I prefer a more neutral ground for our first meeting, I’m sure you understand. I’ll text you the address when I have made up my mind where, okay?’
And again the reply comes right away.
‘All right. I really am sorry, Vegas. I can grovel at your feet if that will make you feel better? I know you must be so angry, but thanks for reaching out to me anyway.’
Words like daggers, piercing his heart. Vegas bites his lip, fighting to regain his composure. Serves him right for allowing himself to get emotionally involved with the wrong kind of person. If he just ignores it, the pain will go away again. As soon as they have wrapped this up, maybe the pain will stop. Maybe this will turn out to be the closure his therapist was talking about.
Unwilling to reply to the last message, Vegas calls Porsche instead. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, everything’s in place. Did you reach out to him?”
Porsche sounds stressed. He might be in the mob now, but at heart he is still the innocent bartender. Intrigues like this aren’t to his liking.
“Yes, I did. I will text him the address once I’m back in the city. In about 90 minutes I guess.” Vegas sighs deeply. “Go and take a long hot bath, Porsche. Try to relax. Macau and I will handle the rest, and I will keep you up to date.”
“If you say so…” Porsche hesitates. “Vegas? I know I have asked you before but are you really sure about this?”
“Yes, I am.” Vegas nearly convinces himself. There is no doubt in his voice at all. Just in his heart. But ‘Vegas the cop’ isn’t listening to his heart right now. “Talk to you later.” And he hangs up.
90 more minutes, then he’ll be back in Bangkok. In about three hours everything will be over. It’s for the best.
----------------------------------------
As soon as he’s back in the city, he checks in with Macau, who has people keeping an eye on the monster. They need to time everything perfectly. He makes a quick stop at his apartment to change his clothes, slipping into his uniform and getting his gun. The plan is for Vegas to drive to Tawan’s loft. He needs to be there before the monster arrives. Back in his car and well on the way, he texts Pete the address.
‘Interesting choice of neutral ground’, the monster replies to the message. ‘Planning to chain me up?’
For the briefest of seconds a vision of naked Pete in chains flickers through Vegas mind before he brutally squashes it. Notgoingthere!
‘Don’t give me any ideas’, he texts back, fully aware in which direction Pete’s thoughts must be going right now. ‘See you soon. And if you try to shoot me again, I will kick your ass.’
He gets a smiley emoji as a reply. Fuck! Vegas hits the steering wheel in frustration. His emotions are all over the place. He needs to get a grip on himself! It’s just a damn emoji, why is he getting so upset?
“He’s on his way,” he tells Porsche and Macau in a conference call.
“Perfect. As soon as he’s close enough, I’ll alert the police.” Macau is handling this whole dirty affair so professionally that Vegas suspects his little brother is way more involved in their father’s business than he had thought. “I’ll send a message as soon as they’re on the way. Gotta go, Pa is calling me.” And he hangs up.
Now it’s just Porsche and Vegas, both of them silent while Vegas is weaving his car through the evening traffic.
“Don’t say it,” Vegas warns his friend.
“What kind of a friend would I be if I shut up now, Vegas?” Porsche objects quietly. “You’ll most likely loose your job over this when you testify as a witness against him. And that will be the least of your problems; unless your father has some very good lawyers, you might end up in jail too, for covering everything up. Is it really worth it?”
Vegas stares gloomily at the cars in front of him. As if he hadn’t thought about this already. “I know. I’m sure Pa will fix it so that it will only be a few months in jail at the most, and you know I’ll get the best damn cell there is. It’s okay, I messed up, I deserve the punishment. And you never know, maybe my uncle will pull some strings and I’ll walk away without a scratch.”
“You really want to be even further indebted to Khun Korn?”
Both of them sigh simultaneously at the thought of that. No, Vegas does not want that at all.
“Vegas…” Porsche is really insistent tonight. “You know they’re going to put him on death row for this, right?”
Vegas’ hands tighten painfully around the steering wheel. Yes, he knows. He has known all along, but buried that knowledge deep in the back of his mind. It’s for the best. Neither Porsche nor Macau know what a true monster the man who calls himself Pete is. Four people brutally murdered as part of a game to get Vegas’ attention. Five when you count in Tem, whom Vegas shot to save the monster. Six if you count in the real Pete who must surely be dead. Eight if you count in his parents too, even though Vegas is pretty sure that was Tawan’s work. Nine if you count in Tawan.
The monster killed at least nine people. Yes, he will be going on death row. It’s for the best, Vegas tells himself.
“I know. That’s the law,” he tells Porsche quietly while his traitorous heart aches.
Porsche sighs heavily and gives up. “I hope you won’t regret this, Vegas,” he says softly, before hanging up.
Left alone in the silence of his car, Vegas holds on to the steering wheel for dear life. He needs to hold on to something, because if not, he fears he will drift away and fall apart, and that can’t happen right now. Being forced to concentrate on the traffic helps. But damn—You know they’re going to put him on death row for this, right—that sentence echoes through his mind relentlessly.
The monster is a murderer, he tells himself. The punishment is entirely justified. He’s a cop; it’s his job and duty to catch killers and ensure that justice is served. Yes, Thailand still has capital punishment but the death sentence is only carried out sporadically these days. In the last twelve years there’s only been one execution. The monster will be fine, he tells himself. He’ll be locked up, confined behind bars, for the rest of his life, and everyone will be safe. No more gruesome deaths. It’s for the best.
Somehow Vegas manages to make it across the city without totalling his car, but he has a few narrow misses because he is so distracted. It feels as if he’s being torn apart. He desperately want to switch off and escape from all these conflicting emotions. Vegas parks his car in the shadow of the buildings surrounding Tawan’s loft and sits there, alone in the darkness, with just his thoughts keeping him company. And those thoughts are driving him insane.
… They’re going to put him on death row for this…
Nonsense, there’s no way the monster will get executed. The chances are slim, almost non-existent. There are over 500 people on death row. The monster will be safe. And he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t care. Not at all.
… and yet…
Why is this taking so long? Time seems to have slowed to a crawl. Vegas just wants this to be over already. The wait is just agonising. But when the monster finally comes walking down the street, Vegas stops breathing.
… Pete…
The mere sight of him causes the floodgates to open. It feels as if Vegas is being crushed by an unexpected torrent of hatred, anger and longing. He’s out of his depth, entirely overwhelmed. It’s been three months, and he seems to have totally underestimated the depth of his emotional involvement; all it takes is one look at the familiar figure wandering closer, heading for the entrance to Tawan’s loft, and Vegas has an emotional meltdown.
… Pete…
Good Lord, what is he doing?! Pete will go on death row! If they find out just how many people he has killed, and how he killed them, he will jump the execution queue and there will be a public outcry, with the crowds screaming for their pound of flesh. Oh no… nonono… what has he done?!
Vegas gasps as the realisation hits home. Fuck! Pete’s going to die, and it’ll be his fault! Fuck! And then the memories come back, the sheer desperation of holding a bleeding Pete in his arms after he got shot by Tem. The all-encompassing horror when Pete jumped off that damn roof, when he thought he had lost him. This cannot be happening, Pete can’t die, he cannot allow this to happen!
Oh, no, what have I done?!
Vegas panics. He needs to stop this. He won’t be able to live if Pete dies. All the emotions he had locked away swarm over him all at once. He isn’t over Pete, far from it. In fact he doubts he will ever get over him. This damn psychopath is literally the love of his life, and Vegas has been sending him straight into a trap!
Oh, no, what have I done?!
He need to stop this! But Pete is already inside the building. Did Vegas space out again in his panic? Because out of nowhere, and without prior warning, the police cars are pulling up already, stealthily, without the lights and sirens. Frozen in shock, Vegas watches the police officers pouring out of the vehicles in a steady stream, weapons in their hands as they cautiously enter the building.
Oh, no, what have I done?!
Frantically, Vegas grabs his phone, starts typing, and then hits ‘Send’:
RUN!