Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
TREATS AND THORNS
Azariel
“Cupid can take the day off. I’m perfectly content with my snacks and solitude.” – P
Months Earlier
I t was three in the morning, and I was scrolling through her email, reading every rejection email she had received after she bravely put her words out there for publishing houses and literary agents to judge and decide if she was good enough. She was. They had no idea about the mistake they’d made when they made her feel like she wasn’t with their pretentious rejections.
They’d soon realize what a big mistake they had made.
I quickly typed a text message to my account and shot another message to my father.
Me: I want this place in ruins by the end of the week.
I then attached a screen capture of the publishing house who had sent her the first rejection.
Instead of replying, my phone buzzed in my hands. I stared at the phone screen. Incoming call from my father. Vitali Solonik. The Bratva’s prince. The man who hadn’t known about my existence until I was nine years old and the man who alongside Mom showed me that love and madness can go hand in hand and can be beautiful too.
I believe it is like a religion because only then can I explain why I was sitting in the darkness plotting the immediate downfall of the publishing house who rejected her— Poe and asking my father to help me move the process along.
My beautiful inconvenience had surely become a madness I couldn’t, and I wasn’t willing to shake.
Dad’s voice came through the line smooth and soft, like it always did, even when it’s coated in darker. “Son,” he said, his voice a low hum. “How are you?”
I leaned back in my chair, letting the darkness of the room swallow me. “I’m fine,” I said, the words slipping out like they meant something, even though I knew they didn’t. There’s no point in pretending with him.
He already knew. I don’t sleep. I stay up at night plotting what I’m going to take for myself next and those are the times when I’m not out hunting for my next victim.
He doesn’t ask about my work. Neither does Mom. They don’t need to. They both knew I had been hunting them—those who fuck with the innocent, the ones who think they’re untouchable. The ones who taught me there’s more bad than good in this world. The ones I now erase from my world so they can no longer hurt kids. Dad knows. And yet, somehow, he still asked.
“That last fucker. You made beautiful art with his remains,” he said proudly. “Your mother and I couldn’t be prouder.”
I smiled at that.
Most parents tell you they’re proud when you bring home a good woman, or when you graduate from college. My parents would too, of that I have no doubt, but they were also proud I haunted a pedophile, gutted him and then used his remains to make an example out of him. To show others like him what will happen to them when I get my hands on them.
There’s a long pause on the line before he spoke again. This time more softly. “I want to know, son... How are you really?”
I closed my eyes. This wasn’t an idle question. This was him poking at me, searching for something I’ve buried deep inside. It wasn’t like him to show concern, not unless it was something he saw as a threat to his family. But the truth was, he loved me in a way that only someone like him could—unhinged, violent, unapologetic. And I was the same. We both craved the chaos that came with family. The madness. The loyalty.
“Truly, I’m fine,” I repeated, my voice flat, cold. Another pause. Longer this time. I know what he was doing—waiting for me to crack. Trying to get beneath the ice. But I wouldn’t let him. Not now. Not ever.
“We raised you to be ruthless, Azariel,” Dad said, his words slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the truth of it. “You’ve been hunting the ones who hurt the weak, the ones who hurt children. I know why you do it. I want you to do it if it helps you find peace, son. But don’t let it consume you. You have to find a balance between all that ugliness and all that hate.”
I tightened my grip on the phone, the pressure building in my fingers. He wasn’t wrong. I know he’s not. I felt it too. All that pitch-black darkness with no light to ground me. Truth was, I wasn’t just hunting those fuckers to keep them from hurting more kids—I was hunting to fill a void. I was hunting because it’s the only thing that made me feel alive. Every kill, every drop of blood, was a reminder of what I am. What they made me.
“I’m not broken,” I said through gritted teeth. My tone is softer than I intended. There was an edge there that betrayed me. It was the edge that had been carving me apart for years. My father was no fool. He’s the smartest man I know.
“No. You’re not broken. You’re my son. You’re everything I wanted and more. But this... this thirst for blood, Azariel. Don’t let it consume you. Don’t let it control you, either.”
I leaned forward, staring at the black wall. My father knew me better than I knew myself at times. But even he didn’t understand this hunger and this need I have to destroy. He didn’t understand the madness that pulsed through my veins whenever I took one of them down. It’s like a drug. And it was the only thing that made me feel anything that resembled peace. Mom did, though. She, too, was someone’s victim once. She used that madness in her favor and wreaked havoc on everyone who ever hurt her. Dad did it too, but he did it for her and for his brother, Uncle Mikhail.
“Nothing controls me,” I said, quieter now, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. “Besides, you taught me to do this. You taught me how to make them pay. Why is it an issue now?”
There was a moment of silence, and for a second, I thought he was going to say something else—something softer, maybe. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out a sharp breath, and I could hear the pride in his voice when he spoke again.
“I know, and there’s no issue. I’m not against it. I’m proud of you, Azariel. I just want more than darkness for you.” His voice softened, just for a moment, like he was speaking directly to me now. “Our family is everything. You, your mother, your sister… you are the only ones who matter. I want only beautiful things out of life for you all. Your mother wants you to have your ‘one day’ in the sun after so many dark days. Don’t lose yourself in the dark again, son.”
Fuck.
They always did this. They always pull me back from madness.
I let dad’s words settle. It’s strange how he can say something so simple and make it sound like a warning, a command, and yet, in the same breath, I could hear how much he cared. How much he loves me. The only love that has ever meant anything to me.
“I won’t,” I said, though the words feel hollow. Because the truth is lately all I crave is to spill blood and to ruin anything that gets in the way of me getting what I want.
The line fell silent, and for a moment, we just existed there, connected by the only thing that’s ever mattered between us—the chaos we thrive in, the maddening love that ran deep, even when it’s buried beneath a mountain of violence.
Then, his voice came again, lower this time, like he was treading carefully, but it was still full of that raw, unflinching honesty. “Azariel… I know life was dark and cruel before your mother found you, but I hope the life we gave you showed you that there’s more for you than your scars and your past, my boy. I hope you know that those who hurt you didn’t break you. I understand your need to set things right. Trust me, I do. Your mother understands too and if you ever need us don’t you ever doubt that we’ll be there to finish the job if that’s what you need. If you need me to set the world aflame to keep the monsters in your head at bay, I will in a fucking heartbeat. I–” he paused and took a deep breath before he continued. “I just want more for you than just a lonely existence. I want you to find someone who understands your darkness. Find someone who craves madness with you, son. Someone who doesn’t just understand it but craves it, like your mother and me. You see the darkness, the hunger we share, and I want you to find that in someone else. Someone who won’t try to change you. Someone who will stand with you and hold your hand in it.”
I sat still, absorbing my father’s words, letting them wash over me. I wasn’t expecting this. The man who taught me to thrive in chaos, who taught me how to destroy and build at the same time—wants me to find happiness in the very madness we live in.
“It’s time for you to find your happiness, Azariel,” he said, the love in his voice unmistakable now. “You deserve it, just like your mother and I found ours. Do whatever you need to get it and once you do, son, you grab that bitch by the throat, and you never let her go.”
Happiness.
The darkness that had clung to me like a second skin stirs at his words. I thought about it and there was something unsettlingly comforting in the idea of it, of finding someone who understood. Someone who will never judge. Someone who will join me in the madness. The thought was almost too much. It felt like it could break something inside me or maybe put it all back together if I allow it. There was only one person who has ever had the balls to look at me like I’m not a monster, even sit by me in the quiet of night without asking anything in return, only friendship and love.
Love… the word didn’t taste so bitter in my mouth when I thought of her. Poe.
“Yeah,” I muttered, my voice rough. “Maybe.” There were no other words that needed to be said, and Dad knew it. He didn’t press further, just let me sit with the thought. I was grateful for that.
“I love you, malen’kiy, korol,” he said, voice thick with love for me. “I’m always here even when you don’t see me. I got you.”
Prince.
Once I was given a number to ridicule me and dehumanize me because I was the lost son of the Bratva’s prince of New York. I was nothing until my parents found me and gave me everything. Now they worry about me. I don’t want that for them. I don’t want them to worry about me. Fuck.
“Yeah… me too.” I’m not a man of many words, but he knew. They knew I loved them. I more than love them because love felt so simple and not enough for how I truly felt about them. My family.
After that, I hung up and as I sat in the dark, I couldn’t help but think that maybe he was right. Maybe there’s more than darkness and pain for me.
Maybe I can have more.
Maybe I can have her.
Blue.
Now
Pulling the black hoodie over my head, I hid my face from view—a ghost swallowed by darkness. I took a long drag from the cigarette, the bitter smoke filling my lungs before I exhaled it toward the empty sky. The night was a void, suffocating and silent, without a single star to break the darkness. The air reeked of rot, decay, and death. It was the kind of poison that seeped into your lungs and stained your soul, but it didn’t faze me. It never had. It was the scent of this place—the scent of what I have become.
A monster.
The building was a carcass of its former self, a plastic factory long abandoned after bankruptcy gutted the lives of thousands—courtesy of a group of greedy, brain-dead men who couldn’t manage a lemonade stand, let alone a business. They drove it into the ground, too busy lining their pockets to notice the whole operation was going to shit. The whole thing collapsed like a bad joke, but no one was laughing. The despair still lingers in the air, thick and suffocating, as undeniable as the foul stench of the people I bring here. People who never make it out.
I walked, whistling the tune of my mother’s favorite lullaby, the haunting melody always soothing amidst the eerie silence. I saw everything around me, even in the blackest shadows. The filthy, decaying walls groaned like rotting flesh, while the shattered windows gaped open like dead eyes, staring into nothingness. The cold air seeped through the broken glass, chilling the space until it felt just as cold inside as it did outside.
I pushed open a rusted metal door that creaked in protest, stepping into more darkness. I’ve walked through these dark halls so many times that the silence felt like an old friend. The hum of the city was distant, barely a murmur against the cold, suffocating atmosphere of my playground. Here, there was nothing but darkness and madness, and I felt perfectly at home in it. I knew this place like the palm of my hand. The rusted doors and peeling beige walls were just remnants now, ghostly decorations of lives that once thrived within these crumbling ruins. As for the shadows? They belonged to me. They moved with me, bending, stretching, coiling like obedient hellhounds at my heels.
I am a predator here. Every inch of this building reeked of retribution and death, and I’m the one who delivered it. In this place, I was the product of the pain that shaped me at a young age. Here, I wasn’t just a number or the son of two powerful criminals. Here, I was the one holding the knife, ending the lives of those who slipped through the cracks of a fucked-up system. I did what the police failed to do. I punished. I was the one handing out the judgment.
I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, except I didn’t have the decency to even pretend to be good. One side of me was the polished, well-mannered billionaire. It was somewhat charming, respected, and admired. The other side was the cold, calculating predator who watched, waited, and struck with precision. But here’s the fucked-up twist…I didn’t struggle between the two. I didn’t feel any conflict. They were both me. The mask and the monster were the same face. And no one knew. I’m the perfect predator, the one who slips through the cracks without leaving a trace. The perfect blend of civility and madness, a deadly combination that no one saw coming. I punished those the system can’t touch, and I did it with a smile on my face and blood on my teeth. After all, no one noticed a thing when the killer was wrapped in an expensive suit, casually mingling among them.
No one suspects a thing. They were too busy kissing my ass to notice the devil walking among them.
I stopped before a door, its metal surface streaked with grime, the handle even had dried blood on it. The air was thick with the scent of old blood. Dried, stale, and clinging to the cracked wood, a reminder of the hell my victims go through. Sweat and iron hung in the air, suffocating, as if the very walls didn’t forget.
I pushed it open, the old hinges groaning in protest. The sound echoed like something long forgotten. It’s the sound of a door that had seen too much shit and one that was never meant to open again. No one who entered should ever leave alive.
“Honey, I’m home.” I whispered darkly as I stepped further inside. The stench hit me harder the deeper I go— sweat, piss, fear, blood and shit— twisted together into a putrid blend that clung to the air.
I stopped, my movements deliberate, as I reached into my black jeans and pulled out the black gloves—my mother’s gift on my 10th birthday. I slipped them on slowly, the leather cool against my skin. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I turned on the lights. One by one, they flickered to life, casting a sharp, unforgiving red glow over the room.
I saw the old cunt before he saw me. Tilting my head, I almost smiled when the fat fuck whimpered clearly afraid out of his goddamn mind.
Lupe Mendes.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The coward had his back to me, bound by his wrists and ankles to an old chair that looked like it could crumble at any moment. I watched him closely, noting the rawness of his wrists, the skin broken and angry where the rope dug into his flesh. His knuckles were white, desperately clutching at nothing, his body trembling in the stillness, as if he knew what’s coming but couldn’t escape it. His skin was pallid, his breath quick and shallow, hitching in his throat as if he could already sense me. The scent of his fear flooded me, and it made my smile widen.
Only here did I smile.
As if sensing me, the fucker jerked his head up, his breath caught in his throat. “Oh, God. Please…” he croaked, his voice trembling. “Whatever you think I did. I didn’t… I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I didn’t?—”
It’s almost laughable how these motherfuckers always reach for their God when they’re desperate for saving. Funny thing is, they never called out to Him when they’re knee-deep in their filthy sins. When little kids begged them to stop, when their cries tore through the air, their pleas fell on deaf ears.
Just like their own cries, when they begged for my mercy.
I cut him off with a single, icy stare. I didn’t give one single fuck about what he had to say. I had already read him, dissected him, stripped him bare with nothing but silence. There was nothing he could say that would make a difference. The shit I pulled from his computer was enough proof of this man’s depravity. The shit he had gotten away with doing for decades in the name of his false God earned his seat in my hell.
The fucker’s voice died in his throat as I circled around him, drawing closer until he was able to see me. I pulled my hood down slowly, letting him get a good fucking look. My face will be the last thing he saw, the last thing he remembered before his disgusting heart stopped beating. I watched with giddiness as fear started to creep into his eyes. It was like the final piece falling into place. I enjoyed it more than the kill. When they realized there was no saving them. That was my favorite part.
“Save your lies and your pleas,” I told him, my voice low, smooth, like a serpent coiling in the dark ready to strike. “You know why you’re here.”
His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, desperate for an escape that he wouldn’t find. This place is a labyrinth of old stone and iron. There was no way out. Not for him at least.
“I swear… I didn’t hurt them. I was only trying to do the lord’s work,” he sobbed, the lies tumbling from his cracked lips in a panicked rush. “Those kids are evil. They carry the mark of the Devil. You’ve got to believe me—please?—”
Evil.
Innocent fucking kids being called evil by men like him made my blood boil. The only evil ones are those that used kids to satisfy their repulsive needs. They love stripping their innocence and breaking them just for the hell of it.
Lupe’s pleas are nothing but irritating noise. He set his fate in stone the moment he decided to act on his sick urges.
I stepped closer, my gloved fingers grazing his jaw with a light touch—sharp as a blade, cold as the steel waiting in my pocket. “Don’t be afraid,” I murmured, the words dripping with venom. “You’re going to have fun. Hell, you might even like it.” I let the words linger, savoring the irony as I repeated what he used to tell the kids he molested.
“N-no, no.” I felt the tremor in his body before I saw it. His breathing was shallow, erratic. I didn’t know whether it was fear of me or the reality of what was coming—but it didn’t matter. He was going to suffer, this wasn’t going to be fun, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to like it. Not one fucking bit.
Slowly I pulled my favorite knife from inside my pocket, the cold steel catching the dim red light from the flickering bulb above. I held the blade up, just high enough for the crying cunt to see it, for him to understand that this was only the beginning of his suffering.
I would savor his pain and prolong it until there was nothing left of the sick bitch he used to be.
“Please. P-please. Don’t kill m-me.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” I murmured, my voice gentle.
He looked almost hopeful. “You’re not?”
I stretched my smile wide, stretching it beyond what should be humanly possible. “Oh, I will,” I purred, voice dripping with a dark promise. “Just not yet. You’re going to live a little longer. And you’re going to live in flesh what they did.”
With a brutal grip, I forced his gaze toward the far wall. There, the photos stare back at us. Images of the innocent children this so-called priest destroyed. Their smiles, once pure and full of life, frozen in time. Smiles that no longer exist, erased by this disgusting man who stole them. Who taught those kids how ugly the world could be.
As his eyes met the wall, he trembled, the sound of his whimpering pleading through the silence. He couldn’t face what he had done, and he turned his head, desperate to escape the weight of their sweet and innocent gazes. The fucker was trying to escape what he’d done. He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him.
Without hesitation, I slapped him hard, the crack of the impact sharp and final. “Look at them,” I hissed, forcing his head back to face the wall, his eyes burning with the horror of what he’d done and what was about to come. “Do you remember him?” I demanded, gripping his face with an iron fist and forcing him to look at the photograph. It was a picture of a six-year-old boy, innocent and smiling. Every Sunday morning, the boy went to Mass with his mother, unaware that he was walking into the hands of a monster posing as a server of God.
The fucker remained silent, his face one of fear. I shoved the knife into his stomach, the cold steel biting into his flesh, and twisted it slowly, savoring his screams of agony. The tremble in his body, the shallow breath that caught in his throat…it’s all I needed.
He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he would.
“Say his name or I’ll cut your cock off next.” I threatened, digging the blade deeper. I didn’t cut his dick off. Not yet.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“SAY HIS FUCKING NAME!”
“D-Diego,” Lupe whispered, brokenly.
I placed my hand on his shoulder, the pressure light, almost intimate. “Now, that wasn’t so hard,” I said, my voice laced with icy calm. “Now… pray to your God.”
“W-what?” he whispered.
I leaned forward and whispered. “Pray to your God. Tell him all you did to Diego.”
His face went ashen, the color draining from his skin. His mouth opened, but the words—his lies—didn’t come. Only a strangled gasp.
“P-please.”
I sighed. Please. It’s always fucking please. How boring and unoriginal.
Tired of him, I pulled out the knife and held it up, the blood catching the light again. He was watching it now, his eyes darting between the steel and my face, his breath coming in panicked gasps. “You can either talk to your lord about Diego, or I’ll cut off your cock and fuck you with my knife until I ruin all your insides with it.”
Now that sounded fun.
And then, like the weak little bitch he was, he cracked. His voice is a ragged whisper, torn from him by fear of what will happen to him if he doesn’t do as he’s told. “I did it. I did it all,” he choked out. “Please… please, just make it stop.”
I smiled, but it’s not a smile. It’s a cruel, hollow twist of my lips, something far darker than any expression of joy. There’s no warmth in it. No mercy.
“Good. Now the real fun begins,” I murmured, my words settling into the air like cold ice.
Stepping back, I moved toward the wall where an array of knives hung, each one ready to be put to use. I selected the butcher knife, its weight steady in my grip, and returned to Lupe. Once in front of him, I pulled out a beaded rosary from my pocket and held it up for him to see. His sobs intensified, yet he still refused to obey. He didn’t pray. Slowly, I looped the rosary around his neck, just enough to tighten his breath, before stepping back, watching his reaction with a satisfied smile.
“Pray, Father Lupe. Pray, or it’ll be worse for you.”
My threat seemed to work because next the priest’s sobs started to quiet, his breath ragged, as a shift took over him. His black eyes, wide and pleading, flickered toward the rosary around his neck. Then, with a tremor in his voice, he began to pray.
“Father,” he whispered hoarsely, “forgive me… I... I have fallen victim to sin.”
Even now, he still thinks of himself as a victim.
His words faltered, the weight of his fear pressing down on him, but then his true nature came forward, and his voice grew steadier. “I did what I had to. What you asked of me,” he continued, his voice low, trembling with an almost reverent fear. “Diego... Diego…” His eyes glazed over, and he spoke as though he’s already far removed, detached from reality. “He was so innocent, so small. I told him it would be alright. I promised him he would like it... but I lied. I saw evil in him that needed to be expelled.”
His hands, trembling in his lap, fidgeted with the fabric of his robe. He could barely keep his eyes open as he recounted his sins, as if the act of confession was a twisted release for him. Motherfucker.
“Diego... he didn’t understand. I—” He paused, the words catching in his throat, a choked sob escaping before he could continue. “I took him. I made him... I made him kneel before me. I made him... pray. And then I... I rid him of the evil within. I saved him. His eyes—his eyes, they begged me to stop, but I couldn’t. I didn’t stop. Not until it was too late.”
A long, heavy silence filled the room. His disgusting confession hung in the air, each word a blade that cut me deep. His busted lips quivered, as though saying it out loud somehow released the last bit of his humanity.
“He... he cried. He cried for his mother. And I just... I just watched. I…” The fucker’s voice cracks again with the realization that what he had done cannot be undone. “I took his innocence, and then I took his life away... piece by piece.”
He shattered before me after that, while my blood burned hot.
“Do you think your God will forgive you?” I played with the tip of my blade as I watched him for any sign of guilt. There’s none.
“Yes. Yes, my God is a forgiving God,” he breathed, his voice trembling, a faint trace of desperation clinging to the words.
“Hmmm.” I nodded slowly, studying him with cold, deliberate eyes. “Good.”
I stepped closer, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling his head back until he’s forced to look up, mirroring the way he used to pray for mercy. His eyes, wide and vulnerable, flickered with fear—yet there’s something else beneath the surface, a silent plea he can’t hide.
A smile curled at my lips, dark and knowing.
Without warning, I drove the blade deep into his left eye. The sound, faint but sickening, lingered in the air as he gasped. His body jerked, but I held him still, my grip unyielding. Slowly, I dragged the knife down, feeling the resistance as it cut through his flesh, from his eye to his jaw. The pain, the agony—it’s all in the silence between us.
The screams are unbearable now, echoing off the walls, each one a testament to his helplessness.
I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it with deliberate care, and took a long, deep drag. The smoke filled the air, swirling around me as I savored the moment. I let it linger, exhaling slowly, watching him writhe beneath my gaze. With bloodied fingers, I ran my hand through my hair, a wide smile creeping onto my lips as I listened to his screams, each one feeding the bloodthirsty monster inside me. The agony in his voice is music to my ears, and as I watched the sick cunt fall apart while he screamed to his God.
I don’t believe in God. I never had the chance to believe in anything but myself. When I was trapped in darkness, no one came to save me. I had to survive—and I did it by letting the madness consume me until I became this.
A different kind of monster than Lupe, but a monster all the same.
I took one last drag of my smoke before I shove it in Lupe’s now bloody and empty socket. His screams of agony are interrupted by the soft vibration of my phone. I pulled it from my pocket, furrowing my brows as I glanced at the screen. The camera feed flickered to life, showing Poe leaving her apartment in the dead of night. I frowned, zooming in on her face. It’s nearly midnight.
Where the fuck is she going at this hour and dressed like that?
Had she no sense of self-preservation? Did she know what kind of sick fucks come out at this hour? The irony. Because at this hour I did the Devil’s work. I turned my back on a still sobbing sick priest, stepping toward the door, my mind already mapping the quickest way to her. But before I could leave, the door creaked open, and Cato, my right-hand man, stepped inside looking like the angel of death himself. His eyes burned with vengeance, his presence a storm waiting to unleash destruction.
I met his gaze, and a slow smile curved my lips. “Stitch the fucker up and then cut his cock off.” I removed my gloves and left them on the cold metal table before walking back to the door. “Then fuck him with it— and when you’re done—choke the life out of him with his fucking rosary.”
“No,” Lupe cried out. “Please God. Save me.”
Cato’s eyes darkened, a cold fury consuming him, as he lunged forward, gripping the priest’s throat with crushing force. The priest’s skin turned pale, his veins bulging, his one good eye began to bulge from its sockets. Cato’s voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.
“I am your God now. Pray to me.”
Satisfaction coiled in my gut, knowing I’ve left the sick fuck in the hands of someone who will make him suffer in ways unimaginable. I stepped into the night, leaving Cato to finish what I started, his brand of monstrous pain far more fitting than mine ever could be.