Chapter 18
VICTORIA
THAT. MOTHER. FUCKER.
This…this is low. Even for that twisted mind of his.
I woke up in pain this morning. Physical pain. Yesterday, Azrael tried his best to torture me, and the repercussions are now visible on my skin.
I look exactly how I feel. One eye is swollen, painted by streaks of unwashed mascara like the morning-after makeup of a discount prostitute, my bottom lip is split, and traces of blood are still visible on my face.
Whatever he washed off my face last night was not it.
Does this man even know how important skincare is? And that’s just my face.
On my body, red lines trace my ribs where his scalpel cut too deep.
I still can’t fully feel my arms from the nail he’d stabbed into my back, and what even was the purpose of those syringes?
It just felt like he’d tried too hard to the point that it had gotten ridiculous.
Mental note, teach him how to torture people.
And the worst part? He didn’t even do me the honor of finishing the fucking job.
Fucking coward.
If this was a test, he should’ve been the one holding the pen.
Instead, he’d outsourced it to three thick-skulled, empty-brained gorillas.
I’d actually started to pity them mid-process.
They tried their best—really, they did. Screamed in my face.
Yanked at the chains. “Cry, princess,” one of them had grunted.
Cry, my ass.
They poured wine on my face. Wine. My wine! The audacity.
I deal with men like that all the time, so why would he think that that would be enough to break me? But he doesn’t know that, Victoria. You never told him what you do. Well, true. Even though his physical torture had been lacking, the mental torture was even worse.
Loneliness.
I’m used to being alone, have been for fifteen years, ever since I escaped hell. It’s not like I would expect anyone to save me.
But you don’t expect him to save you from himself, do you?
“Fuck off,” I tell that stupid voice in my head. I don’t need to be judged by my own brain.
Azrael will suffer once I get my hands on him; I’ll split his guts open, rearrange them like a fucked-up jigsaw, tie him up the same way he did me, and make him beg for mercy.
No, dear Professor, what happened last night was a one-time thing.
He’ll either hold up his part of the deal as he should, or I’ll not control myself anymore and just give into the bloodlust. And he seems to have the perfect body for my type of torturing sessions.
Not to mention, I’d had to fake weakness with everything I had after we left that place. The fragile girl act, barely holding on, trembling with every move. Oh, please. I’ve walked through worse for breakfast. But I’d played it like the Academy was watching.
And the pièce de résistance? “I don’t want to smell wine today.”
Does he really believe I’m that weak? Why try so hard to torture my body with every existing utensil if that’s the case?
Now, why did I have to do it? Easy. He never wants to drink with me. I even bought his stupid whiskey, thinking maybe—maybe—I’ll get to watch him unravel in real time for once, not just through drunk texting. But no, he couldn’t even give me that.
Well, guess what, Professor?
You’ll drink it, and you’ll like it, hopefully before I lose my patience.
Sunday. Again.
At 7 a.m. sharp, Alex gets the green light. And every fucking week, he uses it.
Today, he’s on time, as always.
His voice comes through like he hasn’t slept in two days.
“We’ve got three: a state-requested job in DC, a cleanup in Toronto, and a weird one out of Warsaw—private client, high pay, no paper trail.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me it’s the same fucking Toronto guy.”
Alex pauses, and I already have my answer. “Yep, that’s him. “
“Why does he keep doing this to me?” I ask, exasperated. I fucking hate the Toronto guy. I hate everything that he resembles, and I’m starting to think he’s just performing a social experiment on me, to see how long I can go without turning on the client and killing him instead of the target.
“The guy’s either purely paranoid or mentally deranged. Maybe both.” Alex shrugs.
I rub my temple. “More like a genetic fuckup. He’s going to make me cut the throats of half of Canada’s population just because. Is it still clean at least?”
The sound of the exhale of relief vibrates through the phone. “You really want it?”
I want to say no, but the guy is paying well, and I like money almost as much as I like my wine.
Not to mention I’m kind of banned from going to Poland, and considering my brain has been extra fucked lately, I wouldn’t trust myself to follow the rules of what an official job would require.
I push the blanket aside and answer before I can change my mind. “Send me his fucking file.”
“You’re in a good mood.”
If only he knew. I look down at the cuts on my ribs that will probably leave some nasty scars.
“Just got a lot of stamina to burn.”
I’m almost ready to hang up when I hear Alex shouting.
“Vic—one more thing.” How many times have I ordered him not to call me that? “The mystery client sent another message last night. Still refuses to provide details, but said, ‘the target is a very special person.’ Are you rejecting it?”
What the fuck…a very special person? Why would they want to kill someone ‘special’?
“Are you sure that’s all they sent?” I ask, surprised. Another client, another social experiment.
“That’s all,” he confirms. “This looks bad, Vic. Bad in a ‘you’d like it’ kind of way.”
I usually say no contracts that sound shitty. No, I always say no to the contracts that sound shitty. I don’t do stupid things for stupid people. But instead of doing just that, I deflect.
“Don’t say anything yet, I’ll let you know once I decide. Gather as much intel as you can until then.”
My team runs like a machine; Alex handles the contracts and deals with every aspect of the digital form—no socials, no credit history, not even a loyalty card at a sex shop is left unturned.
His tech skills are the best you can get on the market, and he has connections for any sort of contractors, from a housekeeper who doesn’t question the occasional extra blood-stained clothes, to people who dispose of bodies seconds after I’m done with them.
He’s a little bit of a psycho himself, but that works in my favor.
Gabriella, the second member, basically rewrites reality.
She makes it look like the target never even contaminated the planet.
Target’s ex-partner might blink confused when half their belongings go missing, but that’s about it.
She is usually off the grid, and the connection is always made through Alex, but I can’t complain.
Even he is too much to talk to, so I’m pleased I don’t have another chit-chatter.
And of course, there’s me. I kill the targets and leave, all in under ten minutes.
Apart from the rare situations where torture is allowed.
In which case, I take my time. And I mean really, really take my time.
One time in Poland, I overstayed my visa because I got too distracted by the fun I was having, and I might have invented a couple of new mutilation techniques.
But in the end, it all comes back to killing. That’s all I do, all I’ve ever done. I was born for this.
I tried the legal path once. Filed the forms, sat through the training, and followed the rules.
Did the time. It was a joke. The system was designed for people who need permission to breathe.
It wasn’t for me. But my time there did, at least, allow me to form necessary connections with the officials so they’d pass me a task that was too extensive in resources and not worth the outcome.
By seven thirty, Alex had already sent the files. Now that Azrael’s little experiment is on hold until further notice—or until I feel he’s been punished enough—I need something to sharpen my teeth on.
I skim through the information.
Government contracts are easier. They want it done. They need it done. Clean, fast, with no extra repercussions to avoid on my end.
Private clients? That’s a little trickier.
There’s always a reason in the form of a grudge.
They want someone deleted from the face of the planet because they cannot deal with their shit.
And for that, I always need to understand that reason.
Not for ethical reasons—I’m not about to start pretending I have those—but because I never do dumb shit for dumb people.
If the motives are sloppy, the planning is worse, and I hate taking the risk for useless reasons.
I open the Toronto file first. The client, per usual, had crossed out an entire list of “approved actions,” with annotations that scream paranoia. “Too slow,” “Too soft,” “Too strange.” Cute. I bookmark a few notes, run a background check on the target, and start drafting a plan.
But right as I should be deeply focused on the task at hand, my thoughts flow to what happened last night. Refocus, Victoria. I start again, but nope, my focus is completely gone.
My hand hovers over the next document, the weird one—the Poland job. Just encrypted origin, high payout, precision requested.
But my eyes aren’t capable of reading anymore, apparently. I’m just staring at a blank spot on my floor, dissociating from reality.
Azrael, you holy fucking motherfucker.
That bastard is taking up cheap real estate in my head.
I slam my laptop closed. Focus, Tory, fucking focus. But even my inner voice sounds distant and preoccupied with other things.
I stand, pace, stretch, and then shake my body like that would shake him loose out of my thoughts.
It doesn’t work, he’s still there. Not in the room, physically, but very present in my brain.
A ghost in my system. I check the time, and it’s only nine forty-five, which means no bottle for me yet.
Fine. I grab my phone and hit call before realizing what I’m doing.
Alex couldn’t sound more surprised. “Yeah?”
“I need a shadow.”
Pause. “Is this about the contracts?”
“No,” I say, stating the obvious. “It’s for the Professor.”
Another pause—longer this time. I can practically hear his eyes rolling.
“Oh great. I thought we weren’t touching that one. When’s the wedding?”
“We’re not,” I blurt out flatly. “He’s just fucking with my brain.”
“Pretty sure that’s what honeymoons are for.”
I ignore the sarcastic comment. Paying attention to whatever Alex says, outside of the job, is like having a structural engineering discussion with a three-year-old— useless and most likely borderline insane.
“He’s in my head all the time, and I didn’t ask for it.
I just want to know what the hell he’s up to. ”
“Look, if this is your version of closure—” Alex starts, but I don’t have time for it.
“It’s not, I don’t want closure. I’m not done with him yet.”
“Jesus,” he sighs. “You’re starting to scare me. You’re worse than my ex.”
“Did your ex also stalk mentally deranged professors for fun?” I counter.
“Touché.”
Silence.
“You sure you’re not doing this because you feel something?”
I hesitate. Just a fraction of a second, but that should be enough to make me question it. Do I feel something? Apart from the rage that is a given, considering the way he treated me? I don’t know yet.
“Send me what they find,” I say and hang up before this conversation goes sideways even more than it already has.
I throw my phone across the bed and stare at the ceiling for a minute just to—fuck.
The cat.
“Shit.”
I stand so fast that my vision blurs, and the room spins for a second. When I finally get to the kitchen, he is sitting by the counter, staring at me with that ancient predator judgment that only cats and contract killers seem to master, no forgiveness in sight.
“Did I almost starve you with neglect, or are you just being dramatic?” I ask, bending down to scratch him behind his ears. That seems to do the trick because one second he’s giving me the death-stare, and the next one he’s purring.
I move to the fridge, trying to find something decent for a cat to eat. Mental note: buy cat food for the cat you decided to share your house with.
“Fantastic. Now I need to add a cat-sitter to my fucking team. Alex better know a guy,” I mutter to the little guy, but he seems unimpressed.
I dump half a can of tuna into a bowl and set it down as a small peace offering. He sniffs it and walks away. Fine. Bitch.
Classic non-spiraling behavior.
Cat stops judging me eventually, or maybe he just moves on to judging the floor. Either way, I take the silence as permission to return to the Toronto file.
The target is supposed to be easy, very predictable.
The paranoid real estate ghoul of a client has a habit of incinerating every person who stands in his way, regardless of if that person actually did something or is just minding their own business.
His targets are usually as boring as the color beige.
This time, he wants another partner gone, quietly, in a maximum of nine days.
One of those “tie up the loose ends” jobs I could usually do half asleep with a butter knife.
Considering I have no intention of attending the lecture next week, I want to take full advantage of the preparation time to keep myself busy, so I spend the next few days building the plan.
By Thursday morning, I know this guy’s address, his favorite deodorant scent, and what his mom makes for dinner every Christmas—ham with cloves.
Like it is still 1964. I’m not judging—okay, I am—but mostly because it doesn’t make sense.
He looks too… clean. Too polished for someone on this list. No gambling debts, no offshore accounts, no wife with bruises or a mistress that lives with his secret child.
His tax returns are boring and correct, his friends called him ‘dependable’. He is even kind to dogs.
It just doesn’t add up.
And I hate when it doesn’t add up.
I’m barely sleeping, not drinking at all, but the idea of focusing on my personal life sends shivers down my spine.
I always over-prepare for my jobs, it’s just something that is needed if I want to be in control of the situation.
I have a system, and I never improvise. Yet, even after days of learning this human being by heart, I somehow still feel under-prepared.
I need to be on top of it, not distracted by a certain Professor. I need to make sure I don’t fuck up.
By the sixth day, I could kill him with my eyes closed.
By the seventh, I don’t want to kill him anymore. Maybe I should save that energy for someone else.
The target is too clean. Too easy. And easy gives me chills. But this is my job, and if there’s one thing I never fuck up—it’s the way I kill people.