Fifteen #2
He doesn’t reply, just glowers at me then looks away. It’s an answer of sorts, but I want to hear him say it.
“Fine.” I meet his eyes. “Eight inches.”
“Wait! No!”
His back is right there, unmarked save for the smear from my blade. I bend over him, cutting a line down over his scapula. I know this bit doesn’t hurt that much, but he’s begging me within moments. I ignore him, whistling a melody through my teeth as I work.
He squirms, trying to wriggle away, sobbing in fear as much as pain.
“Keep still,” I mutter in irritation. He’s making it difficult to carve out a neat rectangle through his pale, clammy skin.
“Please!” he cries.
“Shut up.”
“I can tell you how to set this right! I can save her gallery!”
“Not what I asked you.”
“All right, all right!” he shouts. “Yes, I told her I’d fuck her and her sister! Yes, I told her I’d have her on her knees, begging me!”
“And look where you are now,” I grind out.
“I’m begging you, Lukas,” he sobs. “Don’t do this, please. I’ll do anything… I swear…”
“That’s what you wanted her to say, isn’t it?” There’s not even any doubt in my mind, and the thought turns my stomach. Where would Amelia be if I wasn’t here to protect her? “I told you not to touch what’s mine, and you went after her anyway, trying to force her to your sick fantasies.”
I’m done with the cuts, and more than ready for the next part. My karambit is perfect for this, and I slide my blade beneath the flap of skin and pull.
This is payback. This is what Amelia demands. This is what I demand, for the trust he’s damaged, for the accusations Amelia leveled at me.
“It’s barely dawn,” I tell him as the first piece comes off, the flesh tearing beneath, and Serranto screams. I have to speak over him.
“Do you know what I should be doing right now?” The next piece takes longer, but it’s satisfying to see how much I can get in one go.
“I should be in her bed right now.” His screams are growing hoarse, his throat raw.
“Holding her close. Teasing her, fucking her, making her come.”
The thought makes me pause, for if I hadn’t been at that gala, he’d have delivered both Amelia and Lucy to the Volkovs. I know how they treat their women. What Serranto would’ve done with them turns my stomach.
I strip the rest of the skin I’ve marked, and he screams through it all, interspersed with pleading and cursing. It takes me a while. He deserves every agonizing moment of it.
“You brought this on yourself,” I tell him when I’m done, straightening as I regard the bloody mess that is his back.
He’s writhing on the floor. I’m not even sure he hears me.
I’ll give him some time to recover. I want him aware while I punish him for a wrong that I can’t even set right.
Wait… maybe I can. It’s an idea. Bastien would have to agree.
A thought for later.
There’s blood all over my hands and blade. All over the floor. All over him.
I head back upstairs, leaving him where he lies.
He’s not going anywhere, not like that. There’s a rudimentary kitchen and I take my time washing myself at the sink, then fill a bucket of water, adding a little soap.
I check the cupboards, looking for anything else I might want.
Nails, screws, and a hammer, along with a big-ass battery that looks like it powers something important.
Haynes isn’t into carpentry or electronics, but he is into torture.
I don’t feel an urge to complicate things. There’s some salt and a small plastic box with a lid, and I take both, leaving the rest.
Serranto hasn’t moved when I return. His eyes are closed, his bloody back rising and falling in time to his labored breathing. Not looking too healthy.
“Are you fading on me?” I ask as I walk back in.
He doesn’t reply.
I pour the water over his back, washing away the blood. The wound gleams pink beneath. He gasps at the contact, hands clenching, wrists raw where he’s strained against the cable ties. His boxers are stained with his blood.
“Let’s talk about the Volkovs,” I suggest.
“I don’t… know much,” he chokes out.
“That’s fine,” I assure him. “Start with what you do know.”
“Told you at the gala. They pay me… for art.”
He must think I’m an idiot. It’s vaguely insulting. “You mean they launder money through you. What else?”
“That’s all,” he grunts. “I swear.”
“Who have you met?”
He shakes his head. “They’ll… kill me.”
I chuckle. “You really are a dumb bastard, aren’t you?”
The salt is a decent-quality French variety in a blue-and-white shaker, and I sprinkle a little onto his back, then rub it in with the toe of my boot.
Serranto’s screams are quieter this time, like he doesn’t have much strength left.
“A boyevik.” He gasps at last. “Pavel… Makarov.”
I tut. “Not even a brigadiry?”
“They’re still going to fucking kill you for this.”
“How will they know, when they won’t even find your body?”
His stunned surprise is almost comical.
“What did you think I was going to do to you?” I kneel down beside him, pulling one finger away from his hand. The one with his signet ring.
Serranto begs and cries as I cut it off, cursing my name. With nothing to brace against, I have to press quite hard, and it doesn’t come away cleanly. But that doesn’t matter. I drop it in the box I found, a souvenir for later.
“I think we’re done here, don’t you?”
He looks at me, face streaked with tears and snot. “Are you… going to… let me go?”
“Of course not.” I pull his head up by his hair, resting my blade against his throat. “I’m going to show you what happens when you go after what’s mine. When you don’t do as you’re told. When you compromise my reputation through your selfish stupidity.”
The acrid stench of urine permeates the air. “Please… God no… wait…”
I draw the blade slowly, feeling it digging in, cutting. Blood gushes onto the concrete, darkening it.
Serranto chokes wetly as he tries to draw a breath.
I release his head, stepping back, watching as the pool of crimson expands beneath him, and the light fades from his eyes.
It is a bit of a mess. Haynes won’t be happy. I’ll have to make it up to him with a bonus of some type.
Picking up my box, I wander back upstairs. I didn’t even get much blood on me that time, and it doesn’t take long to clean up. The song I was humming is stuck in my head, and I whistle it as I wipe down the sink.