Chapter 26 Mikail #2
I will watch you from the shadows, like always. Will make sure you get whatever you desire.
I don’t have to say that. She knows.
When she falls asleep, I sigh in relief because I can shatter in peace.
Going to the bar, I grab a bottle of vodka and return to my seat.
Drinking and watching her.
On repeat.
I do that until I think I’d rather be dead than face the biggest loss of my life.
When the flight attendant passes by, I thrust the half-empty bottle at her, trying to hide my weakness. Once Dahlia wakes up, I must put the impervious mask on. That her words didn’t decimate me. That she didn’t just set my world on fire, leaving me to inhale the ashes, asphyxiating on misery.
She thrashes in her seat, her face draining of color. “No,” she says in a high-pitched tone ringing with panic.
I shoot from my seat, ready to rip her from whatever nightmare grips her.
Gently, I wake her up by brushing my knuckles along her cheeks and calling her name.
Her eyes pop open, and the relief is instant.
“It was just a nightmare,” I say in the gentlest tone I can conjure.
“Yeah,” she gulps.
“Good, let’s watch a movie,” I suggest to distract her.
She loves musicals, so that’s what I search for. I don’t even know which movie I picked, but she’s focused on the screen, fully immersed, and that’s all that matters.
Closing my eyes, I just wish to vanish somewhere else for a while and return numb enough to keep me in check.
Thankfully, by the time I wake up, the flight attendant says, “We’re about to land, sir.”
I nod, and it’s then that I notice Dahlia staring at my chest.
Fuck, I forgot to button up. I wonder if she thinks I am insane for having a tattoo of her name now. Her breakup left me so unbalanced that I can’t react.
I button my shirt up, and she blinks as if waking up from a trance.
Once the jet lands, she remains rooted in place at the exit, as if she doesn’t want to leave.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, nor do I care. I would want nothing more than to turn the jet around and disappear.
She climbs down, one small step steeped in determination after another, taking that decision from me. Her swift ending of us makes me wonder if the entire trip was more of a mirage. Something my depraved brain imagined.
Shaking my head to clear it, I open the door for her and get in my Bugatti.
Not even my favorite car brings me a modicum of joy.
Dahlia remains silent and perfectly still on the drive home.
When my phone rings, I crack my neck to ease the tense muscles. Let it be that someone fucked up so I can fuck them up. I need something to expel this pain butchering my insides.
I pick up to hear Adrian say, “Boss, you need to come to the club. We have a problem.”
I hang up, right in time for the gates to the compound to open.
With every mile, she has stiffened more beside me. I am afraid she will break apart with a touch.
After parking the car, I round it to open the door for her.
“Are you leaving?” she asks, voice trembling.
“Yes, some problems I need to deal with.”
“Be careful, okay?”
I smile at her, infusing as much confidence as I can, while I couldn’t care fucking less if I live or die. “Always.”
I am about to leave when she calls my name. She has the force to stop me in my tracks like nothing else. I look at her over my shoulder, pleading for her to choose me.
“Thank you.”
I let out a self-deprecating sound, but nod, and rush to my car.
Was it all fucking in my head?
I speed toward the club, hoping to get my hands on someone. The rage flooding my system craves blood and broken limbs—sweat and pain.
Once I park, my men stand straighter, greeting me.
In my office, Adrian waits for me. We don’t waste time with small talk, and I drop into my chair. He plays a video on his phone, and I see several masked men sniffing around our ports, specifically targeting our cargo.
“They know what they’re doing. They’re cops.”
We keep a list of all the dirty cops, paying from bottom to top, but this feels like an insult I won’t stand for. So, I call the chief. I don’t care how late it is.
“I’ll send you some pics. I want their names and addresses in the next ten minutes.”
I hang up and send my team the video as well.
We got our hands on some facial recognition technology that is years away from release.
No one can hide their faces even behind a mask.
But I want to test him. One wrong name, one second later, and I will remove his ass in the best case. And I am not in a generous mood.
My men, being smart, keep their distance and don’t even ask me how my mini vacation went.
Steepling my fingers on my mouth, I wait for names.
My team is faster, and I get the names and addresses of the five guys in under two minutes.
The chief of police sends them six minutes later.
They match. Good for him. He gets to live.
The violence pulls me deeper into its seductive web. I tell my trusted men to bring them to me unharmed to the warehouse at the outskirts of town, where I prefer to have my fun with traitors.
I am the first to step inside, the cool, heavy energy of this place a testament to my numerous kills. I roll my sleeves up to my elbows and lean my back against the wall.
Silence surrounds me, trapping me with my somber thoughts. The wind blows, rattling the chains hanging from the ceiling. Alone with my pain that craves some vindication, a darkness sets in.
Cracking my head, adrenaline flows through my veins with a thirst for blood. Needing an outlet for this rage that is consuming me whole.
One of my men thrusts the first traitor inside, and I pick up the spiked steel baton from the metal table by my side. It scratches along the floor, the jarring sound of the impending gore ringing out.
He’s about to open his mouth, but I am not in the mood for excuses. I swing it at him in one violent strike. He flies onto his back, landing with a thud. The instant I yank the baton out of his skull, blood seeps from the holes in his temple from where the spikes embedded themselves.
Eyes wide open, his body jerks one more time before he stills. He’s dead, and I don’t even feel marginally better.
The next two waver inside, and they exchange a quick glance at their dead colleague lying in a pool of blood at my feet.
Thinking that together they have a chance, they come at me. Such fools. A manic laugh erupts from deep within me. Just to feel something other than the agony slaughtering my chest, I let each of them hit me once.
I feel fucking nothing, so I end them as well in quick succession.
With both hands, I hoist the spiky baton above my head and smash their heads against the cement.
Brain matter flies everywhere, their blood spraying a grotesque scarlet painting on the cement wall and drenching my suite.
The metallic, tangy smell fills the air, accompanied by an eerie silence.
Death surrounds me, turning me into the reaper with feet firmly planted in hell.
Breathing heavily and not one bit calmer, the last two stumble in.
With these two, I take my time to satiate a need that no blood, no violence, nothing else can fulfill.
Only her. Only ever her. But she left me.
Roaring, I chase after them, the rage leading me until I leave nothing but carnage in my wake.
Surrounded by the five dead bodies, I stare at my bloody palms and battered knuckles. Misery presses heavily on my back, and I drop on my knees—a fallen king. The baton clanks on the floor, rolling away just like my dream of a future with her.
I throw my head back and scream.
Scream until I lose my voice.
Scream until the piercing bellows turn into muffled sobs.
Palming my face, I cry for the first time in my fucking life. The worst part is I know it’s for the best.
Only a monster can love a monster.
But a saint and a sinner?
That’s unheard of.