Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’ve been watching them on the cameras. They’ve been parked out there for the last eighteen hours, not even trying to be inconspicuous.
Three men are sitting in a car staring outside my house, like it personally offended each of them.
I shake my head, sighing at their stupidity. What the hell are they thinking?
I slide my gun in my waistband and wrap my robe around me, even though I’m fully clothed.
I want to portray an element of unintimidating.
I head into the kitchen, grab a cup of coffee and hand Marianne a bottle from my pocket.
"Make a pot of strong coffee." I wink, heading outside.
I walk down the driveway, sipping at my drink.
When I get to the car, the three brothers are scrunched up, fast asleep.
I stroll around the back, lean down, and attach the little black box from my other pocket to the bottom of the car near the petrol tank, and I walk back around to the driver’s side.
I tap on the window, stand up and take another sip of my steaming coffee.
The strong black liquid ripples in the mug.
The one in the driver’s seat slowly opens his eyes, and the look of shock that passes across his face makes me chuckle.
He sits up, rubs at his eyes, before winding the window down a fraction.
“It’s freezing out here. Come inside. I’ll put on some breakfast.”
He nods and turns to wake the others up. I stroll back across the street and up the driveway. As I enter the house, I hear their boots scuffing along behind me, and I grin to myself as I push inside the house and walk through to the kitchen.
“Marianne, please make these gentlemen a cup of coffee. They must be freezing.” They smile and take the cups from her.
Sitting at the table, I sit opposite them.
I start to chat, nothing in particular, just nonsensical drivel, pretending I have no recollection of who they are.
But once their eyes start to get heavy and their heads bob.
I know the coffee is working. A few moments later, two of them are passed out on the table and the other one has just slid off his chair and is lying on the floor.
I tug out my phone and send Luca a message before leaving and heading upstairs to change. I can’t torture in my good clothes.
I push into the basement, and Luca and Matteo have the three Mancini brothers tied to chairs.
Leaving them secure and unaware of their situation, they’re still out cold.
Their heads rest against their chests, their hands and feet bound to the metal chairs.
It’s the old cold store where they used to hang meat back in the day.
A few tweaks over the years have created a perfect entertaining space, which works out great, having the drain in the centre of the room.
There’s a hose in the corner to make cleanup a little quicker.
I have my father’s old tools attached to the walls and a few seats down here, along with a long workbench.
The room is dim and gloomy. The single light swings back and forth from the chain in a calming rhythm. There are fluorescent strips all the way around the room, which I leave turned off. I prefer the shadows. They make the room feel more despondent. Instilling despair into its visitors.
I used to come down here when I was younger; my father had long stopped entertaining guests down here himself by then. Leaving that to his henchmen or Alfredo, but I have my suspicions that Alfredo rarely got his hands dirty.
I remember the screams, the despair that clawed at your skin as I stepped closer to the room, the coldness that spread through the corridor the closer I got.
It didn’t deter me though, it called to me—almost like entering the rings of hell, or heading towards purgatory.
The tingle only heightened now that I can step inside for myself.
The clawing desperation of its visitors feels like a lover’s caress.
The adrenaline floods my senses, making me feel alive; it’s the same sensation I get from Vittorio, that rush.
My heart beats faster. My skin clammy with excitement.
Anticipation of a climax. I sigh. Good things come to those who wait.
Vittorio found me when I thought I would always be alone.
And now I don’t just have to kill to get that feeling, to acquire that release for my pent-up emotions.
They were bound tight for so long with no absolution.
Plotting and planning demise just doesn't create the same endorphins.
I take my own seat and wait patiently for the chaos that I can feel.
It’s buzzing through my fingers, an itch I need to scratch, to feed.
I smile to myself and crack my neck. Where to start—that is the million-dollar question.
While I wait for them to wake up, I check my tools, the sharpness of each blade.
The edges of my cutters. Adding new blades to the razors and wiping down my work surface.