50. Hendrix
Hendrix
M ayhem unfolds in the form of me watching in horror as Saint digs his teeth into Boris’ cheek, ripping out a chunk of his skin, then spitting it onto the ground like it’s a glob of saliva.
Boris cries out, stumbling back holding his cheek before tripping and smacking the back of his head on the ground.
Saint uses Boris’ grogginess as an opportunity to unfasten himself, then carry the chair over to secure it against the door.
“You okay, baby?! Talk to me,” he asks, not making eye contact as he bends down to pick up the hammer Boris used on his arm.
Which is when I’m reminded it’s most likely broken.
Not that Saint appears bothered by it.
Either he’s too hyped up on adrenaline, or unlike me who’s crippled by pain, the laws of physiology failed to reach him.
Saint repeats the question, but this time standing over Boris like a vengeful beast.
“Yeah…I’m okay.”
“Good girl. Now close your eye for me, yeah?”
His voice forebodes impending violence, but there’s a hint of softness to it I know he’s trying to maintain for me. Even remain playful with the mention of my singular working eye.
A destructive energy radiates off Saint as Boris groans at his feet, and somehow I know, I just know what I’m about to see him do will be the worst thing he’s ever done.
And it will be solely for me.
So, how can I not look at all of it?
How can I not look at all of him?
The good, bad, and the ugly.
“Last chance, baby.”
“I’m not looking away.”
That’s all Saint needs to hear before dropping to his haunches, raining down hell on Boris with the hammer. Striking him in the face one, two, three times with his uninjured arm until the guy mirrors roadkill.
Gurgling noises come from him at first, but the more Saint obliterates him with the hammer the lower they get. Until eventually, the guy is limp, and no noises come from him at all.
Saint doesn’t let up, though, instead, he screams, hitting harder, and faster, until blood and brain matter splashes all over him too.
Then, once the hammer has served its purpose, Saint tosses it on the ground with a clank.
The image before me is one pulled straight from a teen slasher movie. Except the star quarterback is the one rising slowly to stand over the mutilated serial killer.
It’s a bone chilling, nauseating, and beautiful sight all at the same time—because although Saint appears cut from the same cloth as his monster, I can see the light still in his eyes from way over here.
The softer features of his face, even tinged with blood, remain as pronounced as the cuts of his jaw.
His breath ragged from anger and exertion.
There’re even tears mixed with red falling down his cheeks.
No cold. No hollow. No black out eyes.
Only a series of human responses to someone who tortured the woman he loves.
Proving to me now, more than ever, that this is not Vicious standing over a dead man…just a vicious Saint.
Loud cracks of gunshots explode from the floor above, knocking both Saint and me out of our hazes before he runs over.
“That’s our cue.” He releases the first knot around my wrist, then catches me after the second, which is when I spot his first wince from the pain in his arm. Saint ignores it, of course, to help guide me to the ground.
“You’re hurt, I can do it,” I tell him, but might as well have tried to convince myself because he doesn’t listen.
Something I’m lowkey grateful for since there isn’t a part of my body that isn’t throbbing, aching, or burning as he removes the ankle restraints.
The instant I’m free, Saint unzips the hoodie he’s got on, which basically serves as a bloody nightgown when I dress myself in it.
“We’re about to have incoming, Jimi. So I need you to listen.
” He points to a wooden desk. “I need you to stay behind there and keep your head down. Don’t come out no matter what you hear. ”
I’m already attempting to stand as I respond, “Fat fucking chance.”
“We don’t have time to argue,” Saint argues above the sound of gunfire exchange, but doesn’t stop me from getting up.
“Better quit while you’re ahead, then.”
Somewhere between playing Witty Remarks and Torture with Boris, that bitch Leerie returned, and I managed to catch sight of where she put Carlo’s gun in case Boris wanted to use it.
Which happens to be in the drawer of the same desk Saint is suggesting I hide behind.
So, off I drag myself to get it, and, as soon as the gun is in my hand, I release the magazine, finding the gun reloaded.
“Jimi,” Saint warns when I slip the magazine back in place.
“ Letterman …” I counter, right before footsteps coming down the stairs mark the end of the debate.
“Fucking fuck,” Saint curses, rushing over to the table holding Boris’ toolbox, then curses again, with much more optimism, as he picks up a gun.
Saint is amidst checking it out when bangs erupt at the door, hard enough to make the chair holding it closed rattle.
In a flash, Saint is in front of me drawing the weapon, and I turn sideways holding mine close to the chest with shaky hands.
Then we listen to the pounding and wait.
Wait.
Wait some more.
Until finally, the chair hits the ground and the door flies open.
Before I even get the chance to react, Saint fires three shots, each one resulting in a body hitting the ground.
Shortly after, the gunfire above us comes to an end.
Minutes feel like hours as the two of us remain still, listening to a second round of even heavier footsteps descend the stairs. My guess? A lot more than three people.
“Get the fuck behind the desk, Jimi,” Saint grits out as the footsteps sound in the hallway.
“Sorry, Letterman…but the rule is…if you die, I die.”
“Look at you…being all poetic and shit.”
“A result of the torture…nothing more.”
Saint chuckles, but I can feel the fear vibrating off him.
“Are you scared?” I ask the stupidest question ever.
“I am. But only for you.”
I smile to myself, because even though Saint made mistakes that really hurt me, I have no doubt he means what he said.
Rising tears burn my throat as I tell him, “Love you stupid.”
“Love you stupid too, baby.”
The words, “Hate to be the one to break up a Hallmark moment, but your cavalry has arrived,” sounds from outside the door seconds before a Royals’ helmet gets tossed in the room.
Leviathan.
God, I’ve never been so relieved to hear his dumbass comments.
“I brought some frenemies with me like you asked, motherfucker, so if you’re gonna shoot, you better make sure it’s only at them.”
Saint lowers the gun, instructing Leviathan and whoever he’s with, to enter.
I don’t have to wonder long, because first inside is Dante Salvini, blood splattered all over his gray suit jacket.
Same goes for Leviathan and the six guys piling in behind him.
The look of rage on Dante’s face is terrifying, if not more than any of Saint’s or Vicious’ combined as he takes in my current state.
“You took- eh quite the beating, niece.”
I tilt my head in Boris’ direction. “Yeah, well, you should see the dead guy.”
Dante casts a glance at said dead guy, then asks me in Italian if I was the one who killed him.
So, in Italian, I explain to him that it was Saint.
“Shit…” Leviathan blows out a breath, returning the gun he’s holding behind his jeans. “Sorry, brother, but hearing your girl speak Italian will never not be hot.”
Saint looks as though he wants to rescind his offer of not shooting his best friend when Dante says, “I have another present for you.”
I’m about to tell him unless it’s a pair of panties I don’t want it, but the two people bound by the wrists getting pushed inside the room shuts the thought down immediately.
A wave of electrical currents spring my insides to life as I watch Dante’s men shove Nikolai and Leerie onto their knees.
“ Ti piace ?” Dante asks if I like what he’s given me.
I nod, all but licking my lips as my hand squeezes around Carlo’s gun.
“Jimi, listen.” Saint grabs me by the wrist when I take my first step to them. “If you do this, there’s no going back.”
“Doubt Nikolai shared the sentiment when he had Carlo killed.”
“He didn’t. I can promise you that. But you’re better than Nikolai.” He scoffs. “Shit…you’re better than all of us.”
“And I’ll continue to be better than all of you tomorrow, after I rid these two pieces of shit from the earth.”
“I don’t want this for you.”
“I don’t either, Letterman. But what we want doesn’t trump what’s right. Carlo deserves to be avenged, and it has to be by me.”
Saint’s jaw ticks, but he nods and releases my wrist, stepping aside for me to pass. I make it five steps before being stopped again, this time by my new scary uncle.
With every word in Italian, he asks if I’m sure I want to do this, and how he’s willing to do it for me if I can’t. When I respond with a not so subtle “get the fuck out of my way” he takes the hint, and like Saint, steps aside so I can face the two pieces of shit who took Carlo from me.
Pointing the gun at Nikolai’s head, I ask him, “Was this vendetta against Luca Salvini worth your life?”
“Absolutely,” he grits out through bloody lips.
I slide the gun to Leerie. “What about you?”
She spits at my feet. “You better believe it.”
“It’s funny…” I refer back to Nikolai, keeping the gun aimed at his daughter. “Because up until two months ago, I would’ve disagreed. But then, through no fault of my own, you went and took someone I loved very much away from me.”
“Your father took my son away from me.”
My teeth grind together as I say, “I didn’t fucking know the guy…hell, up until tonight I didn’t know any of you people.”
“But your uncle knows you, princess, and he loves you very much. Therefore, I had the right to take what was owed to me, a life for a life.”
“Tell me, Nikolai. Did you have to watch your son die?”
“This doesn’t matter.”
I press the gun into Leerie’s head. “Yes it fucking does…now answer.”
Nikolai shifts his weight but continues upholding the stoic exterior. As for Leerie, well, her facade crumbles into sobs.
Good—because I made this bitch a promise—and now she knows how much I intend to keep it.
“No. I didn’t watch him die,” Nikolai mutters as his daughter begs me not to kill her.
“Then believe me when I tell you the pain of doing so is a hell-of-a-lot worse.” I pause, narrowing my eyes. “Here…let me show you what I mean.”
My finger squeezes the trigger, and a deafening crack renders the air as a bullet fires into Leerie’s skull, making her drop to the floor with a lifeless thud.
My heart skips a beat as I take in her bulging eyes and blood oozing from the hole in her head.
Nikolai screams in horror, lunging for me, but is quickly held back by one of Dante’s men.
I kneel down to meet his teary eyes. “See? It’s a lot different watching a person you love turn into a corpse in a split second.”
Nikolai sputters a bunch of stuff at me in Russian, so frenzied saliva spits from his mouth.
I press the gun to his head next. “Not to worry, Nikolai. You’ll be meeting your son and daughter in Hell soon.”
“Fuck you…you fucking crazy bitch.”
“You’re not wrong…because for some reason killing your daughter just put me in a really good mood.
” I press the barrel harder into his head.
“And it turns out, like you told Saint earlier, being in a good mood makes me do nice things for those about to die.” Sucking air through my teeth, I continue, “So, Nikolai, before you enter Hell along with your son and daughter, you can rot assured knowing your youngest daughter Alexis will be right behind you soon enough.”
With that… crack goes the pistol .