Monomaniac

Chapter 3

Dante

DEATH IS IN THE AIR AND SO IS SHE.

I know it because I stored the memory of her in my blood long ago.

Ill, that's what I am. Terribly ill because the source of my diseased soul has finally materialized, after a lifetime of searching for the cure of her. And now I might as well be dying.

All because of her seraphic eyes, whose sadness could summon a cemetery to forgive what slowly fills it.

Thirteen, long, tormenting years have passed, drowned in stale whiskey, filthy blood and unshed tears. The moment I felt her, the gun in my hand evaporated, my final mission faded into a mass of ashes, the course of my life was reduced to an open wound. She's all I have left.

Mia ombra. Where have you been?

You don’t know me, but I feel you in the marrow, in the veins.

Only seconds before, she entered the large reception room below me, embodying an apparition that must have been created by my tortured mind. There is no other explanation; no mortal could be this gripping, as if she were a knife created to be plunged deep into me, rather than to carve a surface wound on the scarred surface.

Mystical, a goddess of the shadows with skin that reminds me of moon bathing, covered from the collarbone down in black velvet, masking the molten movement of her elegant limbs. Somehow, beyond the layers of refinement that can't be bought by any of the other affluent women occupying the room, she is distinctive; even humble, judging by her carefully concealed unease.

Rare gray eyes study the crowd with educated ease as she swallows us all with each flick of her tongue absently wetting plump wine lips. Was there ever a more seductive sight? I firmly doubt it.

From the moment she entered the room, I wanted nothing more than to feast on them until every shattered piece of my void-eaten soul will be rearranged by their secret language.

My hands itch to grasp her wasp waist, to pluck her from the infertile soil trapping the carnivorous flower I'm inclined to believe she is, and pin her in the first alcove, away from the swarm of people.

Like a phantom, she walks to the center of the room as if seeking a resting place, looking faintly human from a distance. Floating above them all, one step at a time, the click of her heels is the only solid proof that she is in fact the material apparition of the woman who has haunted my nights to the point of insomnia for years.

But I see her beyond the flesh, with perhaps more clarity than I've ever perceived anything else. She's not to be witnessed by them, because she was created for my eyes only from the very beginning.

The years have changed her, but her otherworldly beauty, drowned in sadness, has become that more intoxicating with time. And yet, beyond appearances, I still see that girl from so long ago, who captured my soul with a single glance.

My starved eyes absorb her and I can't help but thirst for what lies dormant underneath those absent eyes. For what she lets out when no one can stand witness but herself, alone in her room, when hiding is futile.

It stings, but I swallow my desire to compromise my reason for being here tonight. There is an internal war between me wanting to consume her to the point of completion and kill the man who extinguished the life out of me and replaced it with blades soaked handle deep in blood.

This is the worst possible time to dissect her every move, but I can't stop. I feel possessed, completely immersed in her soul-binding spell with every rise of her chest as she breathes, the manner she laces her fingers in front of her body shrouded in mystery, the way the chandelier glow falls on her thick ink-stained hair.

I need to have her as my own, to enter her completely without the possibility of ever leaving. To finally rest.

Unblinking, she looks at everything and nothing, far from being present. She is in a world of her own, detached from the people around her and their attention, effortlessly embodying the image of calm and detached poise. There is a coldness, an unavailability about her that gets me hard just by observing it from afar.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Ophelia Grimes honored us this evening with her presence. She is the one who brought my Evelyn back to safety and ended our sleepless nights by helping to catch the brute who took her from us. I must admit, I never believed in things such as your talents before you knocked on our door, but you saved my daughter and for that I will be forever in your debt. Tonight is in your honor, my dear. Cheers!" The man next to her and the host of the evening, Albert Beckett, toasts in a booming voice as he raises a champagne flute into the air.

The whole ballroom erupts in applause, and the little girl at the man's right clutches his knee in a vise grip, clearly uncomfortable with being surrounded by so many people. In his defense, he does the sensible thing and runs a hand through her wavy blonde hair, trying to soothe her nerves.

My gaze gravitates back to her, to Ophelia. How bizarre, how liberating it is to finally know the name of the mania she had unknowingly instilled in my soul and mind. I wonder if she remembers that day – me.

Devoid of any sense of self-control, I inch closer to the balcony railing, closer to her. I have to fight my desire, my knuckles turning bleach white on the marble railing as I force myself to remain undetected in the shadows. At this point, I'm playing an already losing game.

Her alluring gaze is directed to the floor; it’s apparent that praise makes her ill at ease, but a smile that barely reaches her eyes lingers for the little girl who now looks up at her with pure gratitude.

This world is an evil place, that much I know. But the foundation still holding it together are people like Ombra, like those who are selfless enough to care for those in need to be saved from said evil.

I have no insight into her talents, but gifted in the art of stealing my breath just by being in the same room as me, she absolutely is.

I didn't delve too heavily into the specifics behind this evening's festivities. Instead, I focused solely on the hunt for a helpless worm parading as a man who has just emerged from the hole he's been hiding in for the past two years.

For the last three nights, I haven't slept, haven't eaten, haven't poured my energy into anything but my carefully crafted plan for tonight's ambush and attack, knowing that this mansion will harbor the man who took everything from me.

Tearing my eyes off her seems almost sacrilegious, but I need to refocus or else the man of the night will slip through my fingers and that won't do in my blood stained book.

Sullivan is a slimy bastard and a rather creative one. As a result, the moment he realizes I've tracked him down, he'll stop at nothing to get away. Before I saw Ophelia, I was following his every move, waiting for the perfect opening to corner him away from the crowd. Collateral damage is out of the question, but it had to be tonight, of all places and times.

He came here on business after a long retreat in Cuba, where I had few connections and he had plenty. Contrary to popular belief, money does buy short-term loyalty, but so does information, and his foot was on the necks of just the right people.

I allowed him to bask in the thought that he was undetected for the past few months, safely tucked away in the snake pit of his choice after hearing of the visits I paid to his dear associates.

There is a certain kind of pleasure that individuals such as myself derive from living in the attic of their prey's mind and my method is simple – I let them sink into the fear of uncertainty, have them taste with every breath they take that their inevitable end is already written and signed by my hand and only then do I take action.

In more ways than I'd like to admit, the last few years have drained me down to my last vital resources, but the infection that continues to fester to this day, created by his endless greed, must be purged. The time has finally come.

Look at him, all tough and at ease, as he sips his double-filtered bourbon. He must think he's safe from me now that he's once again backed by the underbelly.

Poor old Sullivan is delusional if he thinks I won't thick his filthy name off my list tonight, using his own blood as my ink.

"Evelyn, you are living proof that the strength of the human spirit will never die. Thank you for being brave enough to wait for me."

Words, sincere and fragrant words, spoken in a decadent voice like melted secrets dipped in caramel. For years, my memory replied only the echo of her desolate cries, followed by thunder. But now I get to hear her simply speak and I could fall to my knees with relief.

The essence behind her voice portrays someone who has seen a lifetime of pain but still stands with dignity, making me long for nothing more than to take her in my arms and make her cry out my name like a feverish prayer in the night. All while sheltering her.

God, the woman is powerful.

When she spoke, her eyes remained solely on the little girl, oblivious to the admiration of the outside world; no doubt recalling the unspeakable events that made this evening possible and that I wish I could erase from both their minds.

No wonder Ophelia's so far removed from this charade called ordinary life, high society or not. She is well acquainted with darkness, it is written on her skin and she wears it well.

The urge to sink into her blackest depths and rip out the remnants of her horrors is almost suffocating in its viciousness. Time, there is a time for everything.

Still, I should know better. Once the door to humanity’s rotten side is opened, there is no turning back. And the ugliness, running or crawling, follows close behind, no matter how far your feet have carried you.

I run my thumb over my bottom lip, trying to compose myself. I got rock hard just from the faint sound of her voice.

How I crave to witness her every valence, to ruin her seductive body as I pin her down. For her to open her soul so I can take it and bury it within my own, to welcome her darkest desires and claim them until all we have left is to create new ones.

Consumed with fascination, I shake my head, forcibly tearing my eyes away from her as I target my prey once more.

I find Sullivan's tall frame poisoning the space like a toxin in the shadow of an archway next to the staff door, virtually extracting himself from the crowd.

I crane my neck, aching muscles and tendons snapping. I don't enjoy the chase, the way their eyes widen and glint on my blade, their hollow screams and pleas – a tenebrous symphony I don't care to play. What gives me slight pleasure is to inflict on them, torturously slow, the same prolonged agony they have brought into my life.

Although, the unforgiving truth is that nothing ever is enough.

To this day, no weapon, no matter how intricate or well-crafted was ever capable of extracting even a fraction of the relics lingering after their heinous acts. But, after tonight, I have all the time I want to be artistic in my bloodied creation.

My dissatisfaction lays in the fact that a blade can only pierce an organ, not their emotional psyche, as they have done to me. Not even in thought could I be that cruel, that inhuman. But I can try.

Before setting off, I look for Ophelia one more time, but she seems to have vanished into thin air. I do not let myself panic, finding some peace of mind in the fact that I now know her name, so nothing can stop me from finding her after I finish what I came here for.

I pull out my burner phone and send Sullivan a text, needing to see the terror in his muddy eyes for the first time of many that will follow once he realizes his hours are numbered.

Hopefully a heart attack will bypass him, unlike my latest target and his drinking buddy Marcus, who, much to my disappointment chose to be a kill joy, dying a coward’s death just at the sight of me. All it took was for my scythe I so carefully sharpened the night before, to graze his neck. What a waste.

He takes out his phone distractedly, reading my message once, twice, annoyance marking his features as he slowly raises his eyes, searching the room for the unknown sender. I make sure he sees my profile as I tilt my head to the right, watching him with dead, unblinking eyes. He pales in an instant.

Say your prayers while you can. Who knows if you'll still have a tongue the next time you get the chance.

Oh well, I think the message hit home.

There's a note of hysteria in his eyes, as if he's seen a ghost in the flesh, before taking off running without looking back; shortly after, he collides head-on with a waiter, knocking him down like a chess piece hit by a defective bulldozer.

This poor excuse of a man couldn't be more pathetic if he tried.

"Dante, he's slipping through the kitchen door!" Tommy's trenchant voice warns me in my earpiece. I take a long breath, giving in to my instincts and allowing him a ten-second head start, only so that no one at this gathering gets hurt in the process.

It's time. With steady fingers, I silently open the door behind me, not wanting to draw attention to myself. After checking to see if the open-plan lounge is clear, I make a dash for it.

With my gun drawn close to my chest I stealthily approach the walls in case someone is waiting around the corner, the sound of my heavy combat boots echoing as I tear down the marble steps once I see the path is clear.

I've been memorizing the mansion's floor plans for the past two days, finding the best shortcuts in case of any scenario, clearly remembering that there is only one exit point from the kitchen.

As I exit the staff wing, I lower my gun while I pass by a maid who doesn't spare me a second glance, busying herself with cleaning some champagne flutes.

I push open the door that leads to the east wing of the terrace and silence my footsteps since I assume he won't be dense enough to hide inside the house. After all, a rodent will always seek the nearest exit when threatened.

We have access to surveillance cameras throughout the property and if need be, I'll sedate the bastard before he makes a scene only to keep him alive for later play on my terms.

I roll my silencer in place, not wanting to acquaint myself with a scandalized audience after I'll shoot both of his knees just before Tommy will come from behind and put the sucker to sleep according to plan.

"We have a hostage situation on the east perimeter. We're on our way," Kane says in his oddly calm voice, which at the moment does little to stop my blood from boiling at his words.

That malignant bastard has some nerve.

I run as fast as my legs can carry me, with lungs on blazing fire and rage churning in my chest, my every step covered in the lethal determination to tear him to shreds once I have him in my sights.

To this day, it still hasn't sunk into his thick skull that he's a dead man walking. The victim who was unfortunate enough to cross his path will likely be scarred for life from the encounter; all because I didn't think he'd to be so reckless as to think that taking a captive would grant him escape from certain death. That's not his style at all; he's that desperate.

As I round the last corner to the terrace, I spot him passing through a hidden opening leading to the parking lot. He carries a limp body, shuffling his feet along the wet pavement while turning his head in panic every few seconds.

Tommy is closer to him than I am, but even from a distance, the sight peeking through the yellow light coming from the lampposts is one I'll never forget.

My torn Ombra is slumped upside down on his broad shoulder, her dark hair hanging lifelessly and exposing her milky neck, now bleeding from an open wound.

She's comatose. He did that to her.

All sane thought flies out the window.

Something heinous as life stirs in the crevices of my mind, something that keeps unfolding and closing in on itself as it fuels me with burning venom. He will suffer a million deaths.

My eyes harden like metal and so does my resolve.

No, death would be far too merciful for what I have in mind; I'll grind him alive and feed him to whatever’s nearest.

I become a waking hell, the sound of my boots resounding heavily on the wet asphalt, loud enough to get a reaction out of him just before he flings her into the trunk like she's nothing but dead weight.

He'll pay in buckets of blood for every second she feared for her life, for every bruise and cut on her precious skin.

Tommy fires two shots in a row in the direction of the car, shattering the glass of one of the windows. I yell in his direction to stop, not wanting to put her in any more danger as the car starts to move.

A second is all it takes for everything in my vicinity to go dark and silent. I force myself into a state of detachment, because in life and death situations such as this one, emotions could lead to fatalities. And I won't allow that to happen.

The world becomes a blur of motion and calculated action as my pulse hammers in my temples with brutal force. I can't remember when or how I spotted my bike, when I straddled or started it. All I know is that I am now one with the asphalt, burning the rubber off my tires, desperate in my need to save her.

All I'm aware of is the moving car ahead as I speed toward it, catching up in less than half a minute, the harsh wind ruffling my clothes and drying my mouth as we approach the wooded area next to the property.

Where does he think he's going? There's nothing but wilderness for miles, and night is fast approaching.

Time seems to contract and expand, moving both too slowly and too fast. Several tree branches rip through my shirt as I approach his window, forcing my adrenaline-fueled hands to refrain from firing a bullet into his rotting skull, fearing I'll injure her in the process if he loses control of the car.

Hell, I despise the feeling of being cornered.

Sullivan hears the roar of my engine as I rev it, his wild, drugged with desperation eyes meeting mine for a split second. He does exactly what I thought he would do, imbecilic as I know him to be, trying to slam into me from the side.

I dodge him easily, keeping my balance despite the road narrowing with every mile we cover; the trees are now dangerously close to my side, the road having clearly been abandoned for years.

Instinctively, I take my eyes off the car, fear piercing me like an arrow as soon as I see the curve up ahead, but it's already too late.

Everything slows down, and so does my heart. My eyes are now trapped as if in a garrote on the trunk, hoping against hope that the inevitable impact won't be fatal.

Deep down, I say a prayer for her survival, even though I haven't acknowledged divinity in years.

Let her live.

Oblivious, he accelerates; the screeching sound of the tires scrape my ears like a prolonged thunder as he loses control of the steering wheel once he becomes aware of the approaching collision. They leave behind thick wisps of smoke as he heads straight into the first oak tree ahead.

The deafening sound along with the crushed metal curling around the tree trunk, creates an image I would pay with my own blood to erase from existence if it meant he was the only one inside the wreckage.

My heart skips several beats as the rear windshield explodes, a sea of shards covering the asphalt as I let the bike hit the ground and run to her.

I don't bother with him, already seeing the blood covering the leather seats. Instead, my terrified eyes are riveted to the trunk as I approach it, my boots further crushing the broken glass with each step I take towards the woman who haunted years’ worth of my nights. I just found you...

Everything inside me slows to a whisper, making me acutely aware of the ringing in my ears as I force open the trunk, preparing myself for what I'm about to witness.

The first thing I see is her exposed neck in the moonlight, and I don't think twice before checking for a pulse.

I draw in a pained breath as I close my eyes in relief when I feel the proof that she's still here, my grateful fingers running over her life source that beats a constant rhythm.

My shadow is curled up in a fetal position, her arms hugging her ribcage protectively as if trying to hold herself together regardless of everything she's been through. Her exposed skin is covered with cuts of varying lengths and bruises in the shape of a hand print, some of which have already turned green around the edges.

The sight of the split skin on her exposed cheek almost brings me to my knees, my hands gripping painfully the bent metal that ultimately spared her. Oh, how I pray the fucker is still alive.

My murderous thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an engine fast approaching the wreck. I don't move an inch, feeling the visceral need to protect her, especially in this vulnerable state.

She is in this condition only because I was reckless enough to make myself known and give him the time to get his hands on her. I'll beat myself over it for the rest of my life if I have to, but for now she needs urgent medical attention and we must act fast.

"Don't leave her side," I direct Kane without facing him, before walking over to the front seat, which, from the looks of it, has collapsed.

Sullivan’s head is propped in an unnatural angle on the wheel, blood pouring from his ear in a thin line.

On any other night, a sick pleasure would have sunk into my stomach at this sight, but not at this moment. I'm in the mood for nothing else other than to drag him back to where it all ended and began. There, I’ll take my bitter time in torturing him until he begs for the mercy of death, only for me to deny it day after day.

I grab him by the hair and tug his sorry body out with one forceful jerk, dumping him face down on the ground.

Unleashing some of the anger built up over the years is a given, my heavy boot knocking out two of his teeth with a solid blow, the sight of them flying along with a splash of crimson satisfying only a drop of it.

At the contact he lets out a pained groan, raising his hands to his contorted mouth. Good, his sensory nerves are still intact.

I’ll take great pleasure in disintegrating him in small pieces for the rats in my sewers. He will be on their menu for the whole damn month, if, of course, my patience will allow it.

I bend down and collect his molar and canine, placing them in my pocket for later. His bloodshot eyes meet mine, trying to mask the terror underneath as he watches me run my tongue over my teeth.

See Sullivan? I am a man of my word.

"Minutes, hours or days?" Tommy asks from my right while lighting a cigarette and letting the ash hit the fucker's face.

"He’s conscious, so weeks. Did she show any sign of waking up?" I ask as I watch the hopeless vermin squirm at my feet, moving feverishly as if still searching for a way out. He will learn.

"No, but she’ll be fine. On the other hand, this flighty bride should learn how to treat a lady," he says mockingly before kicking him straight in the liver.

The familiar sound of ribs cracking doesn’t ease my anxiety, Ophelia being my only concern at the moment. We need to go.

I crouch down and straighten his twisted limbs so that he can be easily dragged by his feet to the car. But not before checking his ankles for a concealed weapon, while Tommy pats his upper body.

Before I realize what's happening, the glint of a blade pointing at my best friend’s abdomen and preparing to strike catches my attention. On pure impulse, I lunge in front of him, abandoning all logic and self-preservation.

For a second or two, the world is under anesthesia. The blade now sticking into the side of my stomach and cutting straight through the bulletproof vest reminds me of that nauseating feeling I thought I'd never have to feel again at the hands of this bastard.

Devoid of emotion or reaction, I watch the rotten man sitting at my feet go stiff with terror, a consequence of his effort that makes no real difference in his pre-written ending.

Without having to look for it, a familiar numb state of mind finds me. There, nothing can touch me, because I'll be damned if anyone ever sees my weakness again. Especially him.

I slowly lower my eyes to the pool of blood rapidly soaking my clothes, parts of it already staining the rocky ground beneath my bent knees.

With numb fingers I touch the wound, making no sound at the raw contact. Though it looks pretty bad, I've survived worse, much worse.

Of course, this is a possibility if, and only if, we get to my aunt's house in time. The ten spare bags of blood turned out to be from an undiagnosed hepatitis donor, leaving us with only two that matched my blood type, which, unfortunately for me, is the rarest on the market.

Nevertheless, I took the risk, knowing that Sullivan would soon be leaving for Montenegro for a long while, implicitly forcing my hand.

"Dammit, Dan! What the hell were you thinking?" a shaken Tommy shouts from beside me, letting me have it, but I'm already too lightheaded from rapid blood loss to do anything but look in his direction and shake my head.

Thankfully, he doesn't really understand my thought patterns and I hope he never will.

With any luck, he won’t get to know the taste of utter guilt that reaches down to the bone and spreads like an incurable disease that surpasses any physical form, going straight for the soul. The scarcity of life wherever one rests his eyes once someone for whom they'd give their life for dies, as they watch numbly another day pass by without them.

And I'll be damned if one of the last souls I care about slips away before my eyes. He is my brother, even if we're not related by blood. The one who saved my life when I was left to die and who stood by me when everything became nothing but dust slipping through my fingers.

It's only fair that I return the favor.

Above all else, Tommy is part of the family and swore on his life to his daughter who happens to also be my niece, that he would come back home to her no matter what. As he always does.

My surroundings become increasingly vaguer, what appears to be his outline hovering over Sullivan's still one, taking up my entire frame of vision.

I don't know how much time passes, but the sound of pained groans floats through the wooded air like fog. My eyes gradually close on their own accord as I try with what little strength I have to remain conscious.

After a while, foreign fingers pry my eyelids open; Kane's aged face coming into view. His meaty fingers grip my jaw, holding my head upright as he shines a blinding light directly into my eyes. It doesn't do much to bring me back to the present, but it's stimulating enough to keep me somewhat awake.

"Don't kill him, he's hers now," I grunt in what I can only assume is Tommy's direction as Kane carefully lifts me up, trying not to disturb the knife still slicing through my insides. He's a burly guy, but compared to my larger frame, he can barely drag me.

Shortly after he props me against the side of the car, everything turns to a sea of metallic black, interrupted from time to time by the sound of screeching tires and faint voices talking amongst themselves.

"Dan, don't you dare die on me man. I'll follow you in hell and bring you back just so you’ll pay the cleaning crew for these wrecked car seats," Tommy says lightly, though his voice shakes.

"Not enough blood," I sigh, truly worried for the first time in years at the prospect that this time around I might actually die.

And, of all people, at the hand of the one responsible for my former death, but not the one in the flesh. Was it always meant to end this way?

"It’s your lucky day; the girl on the backseat has a tattoo with her blood type on her wrist. AB negative fra', fucking AB!" he says loud enough to awaken the dead as he smacks something nearby with unmistakable excitement. Even with my eyes closed I can see that mad smile of his.

"Cut his shirt," a familiar woman's voice says from the distance.

Cold metal touches my skin, a stinging sensation piercing my vein. Numb and empty. Empty and numb.

"Pass me the suture thread and alcohol."

This is no accident, this is fate. Ours.

"Mia ombra", it . my shadow

"Fra'", it. n. (slang) it is the abbreviation of the word "fratello", which means "brother"; it's the exact translation for "bro".