VI
Theo Rocco
B lood flies over my bare torso, the warm liquid turning cold on my skin. I smirk at the splatter as I drop the steel knuckle dusters to the floor, the noise of the metal hitting the warehouse floor ricocheting around the silent interrogation room.
“Ready to talk yet?” Atlas asks the man in Italian. He spits out blood at my feet and I lunge forward, pulling his bloody face up by his hair. I keep hold of his hair, forcing him to look at Atlas as I walk around to stand behind the man.
“I have nothing to say,” he responds in English. His heavy Russian accent comes through, even though he has a lisp from a few of his teeth being knocked out.
“No problem,” Atlas smirks and crosses his arms, nodding to me. I release the bloody man’s hair, letting his head drop down as I walk over to my tools table.
My fingers brush along the metal weapons until I reach my favourite one. It’s a dull kitchen knife, blunt enough to make death slow and painful.
Grabbing it, I flip it in the air and catch it in my hand. Running my finger along the blade, I walk over to the man and grin at him. His tired gaze flickers between my face and the knife in my grasp, his eyes widening in fear.
“Pick a limb,” Atlas commands behind me.
The man stays silent, either in defiance or defeat. I cock my head, tapping my foot as I wait for his response.
“I said pick a fucking limb,” Atlas stalks forward, landing a blow to the guy’s face.
“Fuck you,” the man spits.
“Okay, I’m bored. I’ll pick,” I smirk and take hold of the man’s wrist. Using the dull knife, I dig into the skin of his wrist, carving a full circle around it. Blood pours from the cut, but not enough to kill him.
At least, not yet.
Heading back to my table, I grab a butcher knife and carve through the bone until his hand is completely detached from his body. He screams out in pain, but I ignore it, too concentrated on my work of art.
“Anything to say yet?” Atlas asks as he stands behind the man’s chair.
The man shakes his head, and I roll my eyes, taking the butcher knife to his toes one by one. I place each one on his lap, forcing him to stare at the severed limbs as he writhes in agony.
“Why did you steal from us?” I ask, taking over the interrogation as I return my tools to the table. I look over my shoulder, expecting his answer but he’s passed out.
“Wake him up?” I ask Atlas. He grins and walks over to the gasoline. He grabs a canister and pours it over the man’s body. As the flammable liquid seeps into his open wounds, the man wakes up with a gasp.
His hoarse screams fill the warehouse, and he tries to wriggle out of the restraints tying him to the chair. We watch him struggle, and after a few minutes, he collapses in defeat.
“Don’t feel like telling us?” I smirk, tilting my head.
“Fuck you,” he glares, his eyes bloodshot. Tears of pain roll down his cheeks, but he keeps his jaw gritted in determination not to divulge any information.
“You have quite a rap sheet, Igor,” Atlas walks around the room, his black loafers the only sound in the silent warehouse, “I always knew the Russians dealt in skin. I just never would have thought you would be the one to hire young girls. What did you do to them, again?”
“Train them yourself,” I answer for Igor.
“Ah yes. Train them yourself. Although, we’d call that raping them until they submitted to you. Then you’d throw them out on the streets until they made a pretty profit,” Atlas continues, picking up a lighter. He passes it to me, and I play with the flame as Igor’s eyes widen.
“That’s pretty fucking psychotic, Igor. But I guess you’re not going to tell us anything useful, so let’s eliminate the problem that is you on this earth,” I throw the lighter onto him and watch as he burns up in flames.
His screams of terror and pain are like a soundtrack as we leave the warehouse, waiting until he’s a pile of ash before sending the cleanup crew in. We had the room fire-proofed, since burning our victims has become a trademark of our organisation.
Heading back up to our house, we each shower in our rooms before dressing in fresh suits. I pour us glasses of whiskey and we wait for Dawson and Andros to join us.
When they finally arrive, we sit down in the sitting room with whiskies in hand. They had both been overseeing the club, and Dawson looks especially exhausted from his nights there.
“Did you get anything from Igor?” Andros asks as he slides his phone into his suit pocket.
“Fuck all,” I sit back, crossing my leg over my knee as I take a sip of my whiskey.
“So, we still don’t know who’s been telling the Russians about our shipments,” Dawson deduces, rubbing his tattooed hand over his face.
“No but we need to find the fucking rat,” Atlas spits out, downing his whiskey in one. He places the empty tumbler down on the coffee table, making everything on it rattle from the force.
“I don’t understand how they’re back anyway. I thought we forced them into hiding years ago,” Andros questions, bringing out his phone again.
“Apparently, it’s a guy called Dmitri pulling the strings. He thought it was time they made a comeback and has been recruiting behind the scenes,” Atlas responds. He walks over to the bar and refills his drink before sitting down again.
“Fucking brilliant,” I mutter, downing the rest of my whiskey before pouring another.
“How was Hazel today?” Atlas asks the others, diverting the conversation to something lighter.
“She looks better. I think she’s buying food now and eating regularly,” Dawson’s face lights up as he answers.
“Probably because she doesn’t have to worry about paying her rent, anymore,” Andros suggests.
“That and we put free staff meals in the kitchen,” I shrug.
“Should we make a move on her, yet?” Dawson asks, not hiding the excitement at the prospect in his voice.
“Not yet,” Atlas shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, “She needs to get comfortable around us first.”
“Did you do a background check on her?” I direct my question to Andros. He nods and pulls it up on his phone before briefing us on it.
“She’s 22. Born in Manchester and moved out when she was 17. Mum died when she was a child and Dad’s a ghost. No record of him, except for on her birth certificate, when he gave a fake name.”
I frown. Her dad being a mystery could be a problem for us. Especially if he has any ties to the criminal underworld.
“Look into it,” Atlas demands, standing up and storming out of the room angrily.
“Like I wasn’t already,” Andros huffs.
I finish the last of my whiskey and head up to bed, the thought of Hazel and the possibilities with her never leaving my mind.
Soon, my little Darling.