4. Roman
ROMAN
James MacDougal is sprawled out on his California King, hands lashed to the frame with purple silk, shirt open and pants around his thighs.
His penthouse on Billionaire’s Row is a room that’s nothing but glass and marble. From up here, the city looks almost clean and innocent. Leather straps hang from a hook by the closet. And a bowl of condoms sits next to a bottle of roofies on the nightstand.
And a mirror hangs above the bed. Mirrors everywhere, in fact.
He’s awake when I enter, which works out well enough for both of us.
He tries to speak, but the silicone ball crammed between his teeth makes it come out in a spew of drool and muffled consonants. His bugged-out eyes dart from me to the nightstand and back in pure panic.
Briefly, I consider letting him squirm a little longer, but I hate being here any second longer than I need to.
This is the place where MacDougal presses innocent faces into his own filth, where his dirty money buys him immunity from dragging young women into their own personal hells.
I crouch until I’m at eye level with him and smile as I flick open my knife.
“Listen to me, James,” I say, soft as a lullaby. “When I take out the gag, I don’t want to hear any speeches or appeals. Nod if you understand.”
He nods franticly, sweat puddling at his temple. I enjoy the transformation when a predator collapses into prey. The gag pops free from his mouth and the screaming starts immediately.
Can’t even keep that promise, can he?
“Please… please… whatever you want—” His voice is ragged, splattered with spittle. “I have money. You want money, right?”
My fingers clamp around his throat until his pathetic noises turn to a dull sputter.
“We both know that money isn’t even yours.”
“Please.” His vocal cords jerk under my palm. “I can get you anything. Just… just tell me who sent you, I’ll double it?—”
“I sent myself.”
He goes limp at my words. “Look, I’m not who you think. I’m not… Jesus, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I’ve got a family?—”
“A wife who took her two daughters to Connecticut away from you.” I nod. “I know, James.”
His eyes balloon. “What… what do you want?”
“Information, mostly. Then the rest.”
He tries to recoil, but the restraints are too tight. “About what? I don’t know anything.”
“Let’s start simple.” I lean in. “Pavel Starkov. Name ring a bell?”
He shudders. I already know the answer, but ritual is important. I won’t ask again, and I wait long enough for him to know it before I wave the knife in front of his face. He flinches, but the words finally come out.
“ I only met with him twice, I swear, it was just a fundraiser?—”
“Human trafficking isn’t a fundraiser, James.”
He tries a different approach. “Look, I’m just the face. If I didn’t cooperate, they’d?—”
“Oh I’m aware of the usual threats,” I say. “But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the payments you accepted from Starkov. Both monetary and otherwise.” I look around this disgusting room of pain and debauchery. “What other deals have you helped Starkov make?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” MacDougal whimpers. The skin at his wrists is going stark white against the purple restraints. “Please. I’m barely involved.”
“If there’s one thing I hate more than men who help traffick children.” I exhale, slow and clean. “It’s liars.”
He goes silent. In the mirror above, I watch his lips work, conjuring apologies he’ll never get to utter. I let him stew, watching the panic flush his cheeks. He goes from red with exertion to the palest white.
I drag the knife along his chest, relishing the thin red line that trails in the blade’s wake.
“I know what you did to those girls, James,” I say. “I know you like the way they beg. I know you like it even more when they scream.”
I rest the tip of the blade just above his sternum. His skin is pale and loose, pocked with age. He starts to cry real tears.
I lick my lips, and the moment I do, I taste her name on them.
Cantiano .
I remember the way she glared at MacDougal’s name with hate like a viper.
I remember the disgust in her voice.
The righteous anger when she drew her thumb across her neck while she imagined doing what I’m doing right now.
Suddenly, there is a second purpose to my visit tonight. The stars are aligning to give me this opportunity.
“I like screams, too, James. But unfortunately, I don’t want to hear them from you tonight.”
The knife finds its way to a specific point in his neck. He starts to scream, but with a practiced slice, I sever his vocal cords.
It’s a small cut, tidy, but it makes all the difference.
His voice dies to nothing but a wet hiss. I savor the moment: no more speeches, no more deals.
It’s exactly what Detective Cantiano would’ve wanted.
And it’s exactly what I’ll give her.
As MacDougal struggles against his restraints, all I see is the wild darkness in Detective Cantiano’s eyes. Oh, what she would do if she were here.
My knife begins to move and I dare to imagine the sensation of her soft hands in mine as I guide her through each step of the torture. My movements take on a renewed fervor.
They are no longer just for me.
They’re for her.
They are for us.
With every cut and every stab, I find myself wanting her more and more.
I want that slender neck of hers between my teeth. I want to wrap her dark silken hair around my fist while I bury myself deep between her legs. To taste the sweat slicking her skin as I drive the air from her lungs one thrust at a time.
I want to make her shake with pleasure the way this man is thrashing with pain.
And she will shake with pleasure when she learns about this. About what I’ve done for her.
I know it.
The torture takes hours. The blood is a perfect red when the councilman finally stops moving. In the dim light of this hellish apartment, it’s brighter than the city lights.
As I savor my handiwork, I imagine her here, in this room full of mirrors and twisted desires. Her full lips parted as she pants in exertion at this beautiful sight of what I’ve done.
No, I think. Of what we’ve done. Of what we will do .
I let out a breath, imagining it somehow filling up her lungs.
Then, for a reason I can’t explain—whether it’s from a singular moment of madness or something more primal —I carve three clean and legible words onto MacDougal’s chest.
A message of my desire and a token of my affections.
TO DETECTIVE CANTIANO.