32. Thirty-One
My hands were steady as I secured the last restraint around Roche’s ankle. The industrial grade straps had clearly been designed to hold against even the most intense struggling. Good, because I fully intended to enjoy watching Roche squirm.
The gas mask pressed uncomfortably against my face. I itched to take it off, but the lingering chemical sweetness in the air meant we couldn’t risk going without them yet. Next to me, Misha worked with methodical precision, checking each strap and buckle with trembling fingers. His movements were sharper now, more focused. Maybe the drugs were finally starting to wear off.
“Check the cabinet to the left,” he said, voice muffled by his gas mask. “That’s where they keep the paralytic agents.”
My stomach turned. How many times had Misha had to stand by and watch as Roche did this to helpless victims? I could only begin to imagine how much trauma he was carrying. Misha was going to need some serious help to live any semblance of a normal life after this. But we could deal with that after Roche was dead.
“How long does the paralysis last?” Ash asked from where he was working to disable the room’s security feeds.
“Long enough,” Misha said, his voice still somewhat detached. “Plenty of time for them to feel everything we’re going to do to them.”
Misha gathered the supplies, lining them all up on a surgical tray next to the table where Roche was strapped down.
I reached out, catching his wrist as he prepared the syringe. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”
His green eyes met mine through our masks, and I instantly recognized the familiar need for vengeance staring back at me. “They stole my father from me. My life . My freedom. I can’t even look in the mirror anymore without seeing what he made me. I need this.”
I nodded and released his wrist. We all had our own demons to exorcise tonight, our own justice to dispense.
Misha inserted the IV into Roche’s arm as if he’d done it a thousand times and punched a few codes into the medical monitors keeping track of Roche’s vitals. Then he slid the syringe into the port and pushed down the plunger. I watched the paralytic enter Roche's veins like liquid ice.
The empty syringe hit the surgical tray with a metallic clink. “Now, we wait. It takes about ten minutes to fully circulate. Then they’ll start to wake up.”
Ash’s hand found my shoulder and squeezed. I looked up at him, relieved to see some of the darkness had faded. He pulled me away from the table, just far enough that Misha couldn’t hear us. “I hope you understand I can’t be part of this, Xander. I won’t stop you, but…”
I lifted his hand to my face, leaning into it through the plastic and rubber of the mask. “I know. This is what I do, Ash. Who I am.”
“I know, but…There’s something I need to say before you start carving into that monster.”
I hesitated, looking up at him, expecting the worst. My throat tightened. What if this was the moment he decided he couldn’t stay with me? That I was too much?
His grip tightened, and he held my eyes as he declared, “I love you.”
The words hit with all the force of a bullet, stealing my breath. He’d never said that before, even though I knew… Somewhere deep down, I knew. Hearing them now, when we were both wearing gas masks in the sub-basement of some fashion designer’s evil lair about to torture a man to death… It was so perfectly us that it made my heart ache.
“You do?” I squeaked in answer, my voice painfully weak.
“Of course I do,” Ash replied as if it were an insult that I’d ever considered otherwise. “I love everything about you.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You know I’m crazy, right? That my brain is fifty shades of fuckery? I like doing this, Ash. I like killing people, hunting them down, playing these games. I’m always going to be like this. I—”
He stopped me by yanking me closer and tilting my chin up to look at him. “You’re my kind of crazy, baby.”
I wanted to kiss him so badly, to grab him by the hair and yank until he bit me hard enough to leave another mark. If taking off our gas masks wouldn’t have resulted in us passing out, I might’ve risked it. Instead, I leaned forward, clutching his jacket and letting our masks touch. “I love you too, Daddy. So fucking much.”
“Of course you do,” he repeated with a smirk before giving me a playful shove. “Now, go do what needs to be done. I’ll be right on the other side of the door if you need me.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He squeezed my shoulder and gave my ass one final pat before heading toward the door. He paused there, looking back at me briefly. Then he was gone.
I turned back to find Misha watching me.
“You’re so lucky to have that,” he said softly. “Someone who wants you even knowing all that you’re capable of…”
I squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll find your someone too,” I promised. “After this is done. After you’re free.”
A soft moan from the table drew our attention. Roche was starting to wake, their eyelids fluttering as awareness returned. Now came the fun part.
“Ready?” I asked Misha as I moved to the surgical tray, hands skimming over the vast array of tools we’d gathered.
Misha nodded. “I’ve been ready since the moment they first stuck a needle in my arm.”
I watched understanding flood Roche’s eyes as they fully awakened, realizing they couldn’t move.
“There you are.” I leaned down so they could see my eyes clearly through the mask. “Now, let’s discuss the finer points of your preservation technique, shall we?”
Roche’s eyes darted around frantically as they tested each restraint, finding no give. The paralytic kept them from speaking, but their gaze screamed volumes. Fear. Confusion. The dawning realization that they were about to experience everything they’d inflicted on others.
“You know what the worst part of assisting you was?” Misha said, selecting a scalpel. “The way you would explain every step to me, every damn time. Like you were lecturing me. Like you thought I wanted to hear all about your sick and twisted thought process.”
I traced one finger along the edge of the table, watching Roche’s eyes track the movement. “Did you ever wonder how it felt to be where you are now? Helpless? Or what was that word you liked so much?” I looked at Misha.
“Obedient,” he supplied.
I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one.”
Misha slashed through Roche’s expensive shirt and their skin in one smooth movement. Blood welled to the surface of Roche’s stomach, staining the fabric of their shirt. Roche’s breath came faster, but that was the only sign he gave of distress. The only sign he could give. All he could do was lay there and passively let us take him apart.
“Have you ever heard of degloving?” I asked, turning over his hand and making a circle around his wrist. “I’m sure you have. You were a fashion designer, after all. Your winter collection two years ago was all about gloves . But where gloves go on, degloving involves carefully peeling back the skin and subcutaneous layers. I’ve always wanted to try it.”
I selected a fresh scalpel from the surgical tray. “My brother, Warrick, is a plastic surgeon, you know. He’s been teaching me a few pointers. He says the key is patience. You have to get the depth of the first cut just right. Too shallow and the skin tears. Too deep and you start hitting important stuff. Veins. Arteries. Tendons. And we don’t want that, now do we?”
“If anyone can appreciate the art of precision, it’s him,” Misha said, moving to the other side of the table with a blade of his own.
Terror bloomed in Roche’s eyes as I made the first careful incision around their wrist. Blood welled up immediately in a perfect crimson bracelet. “Look at that. I think I’m starting to understand the whole macabre art angle.”
While I continued my work, Misha prepared another syringe. Roche’s pulse jumped wildly beneath my fingers, though the paralytic ensured they remained still. Their eyes locked onto my hands, unable to look away from their own unmaking.
“I’m ready to administer the first dose of preservation chemicals,” Misha announced.
Roche’s eyes darted to where Misha stood, and he somehow managed a small squeak of sound.
“Will it hurt?” I asked, looking up from what I was doing.
“It’ll be agonizing,” Misha promised.
“Good.” I gestured for him to continue.
Tears spilled from Roche’s unblinking eyes, flowing as freely as the blood flowed from the careful incisions I was making.
Misha and I worked in perfect harmony over the next hour, each of us drawing on our particular expertise. Every cut, every chemical, every careful manipulation of Roche’s body brought us closer to transforming Roche into their own final fashion statement. Their silent tears never stopped flowing, but neither did our methodical work.
“It’s fitting,” Misha said as he administered the final preservative. “That they should become the very thing they forced others to be. Beautiful. Still. Eternal.”
I stepped back to survey our work, a deep feeling of satisfaction settling in my chest. “I think we’ve made our point.”
“More than made it.” Misha sounded exhausted. Vindicated, but exhausted.
We’d positioned Roche exactly as he’d appeared in his now famous newspaper photo, the one that’d accompanied his declaration of innocence. The message would be clear: No one, not even the wealthy social elites, was above the law. Not as long as one of the Laskin siblings was still breathing.
“Well,” I said, wiping a bloody hand across my forehead, “It’s been fun. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. C’est la vie , am I right?”
Misha nodded and slid the final needle into the injection port. Roche’s eyes tracked the movement, understanding exactly what was about to happen to them.
Misha leaned down closer to their ear. “This is for every beautiful soul you silenced. Everyone whose light you put out with chemicals and lies.” His voice cracked slightly. “This is for my father, who died trying to save me. But mostly? This is for me. Burn in hell, suka blyat !”
Misha pushed the plunger down quickly and threw the syringe down before stepping back.
In the end, Roche’s final expression was one of perfect understanding.
I came around the table and pulled Misha into my arms. “It’s over,” I murmured as he trembled.
He broke with a choked sob. “Thank you,” he managed through the tears. “For helping me. For saving me. I won’t forget this, Xander. Ever.”
I held him tighter, both of us taking comfort in the knowledge that justice had finally been served.
Behind us, Roche’s preserved body caught the light like the world’s most macabre fashion installation. Art, after all, was meant to make a statement, and this one would ensure no one ever forgot what happened here.