Octavia
The car rolls to a stop, and I’m out of the vehicle before the driver even thinks to move. I push the door open myself and step into the faintly cool night air.
Once the message came through, I changed into jeans and a hoodie, pulled on a Fendi jacket and a pair of trainers, released my hair from its bun, and walked straight out of the door.
I took the Lamborghini to the helipad, boarded the helicopter, and flew across to the mainland.
Adriano circles the SUV a moment later and comes to stand beside me, his posture alert, composed, and ready.
The driver stays by the vehicle as Adriano and I make our way toward the rusted metal door.
Two of our men stand guard, they nod in greeting before one of them pulls the door open. The hinges let out a slow groan, and in that instant, I see him.
The piece of shit is strapped to a chair in the centre of the room, wrists bound to the armrests, ankles tied to the legs, a thick rope braced across his chest to stop any thrashing.
A bruise spreads along his jaw, darkening into purple. His lower lip is split, dried blood crusting at the edge.
I let a slow smirk curl at my mouth.
Adriano stands beside me, perfectly at ease. “I couldn’t help myself,” he says.
Exactly the sentiment I had.
I shake my head, amused. “You should work on your self-control.”
He grins. “I’ve got plenty, boss. Just not for men like him.”
I almost roll my eyes at the title. Technically, yes, I’m his superior. But to me he’s family, the closest thing I’ve ever had to an older brother.
Still, in public, hierarchy matters, and he addresses me accordingly.
The man in the chair starts thrashing the moment I move toward him.
“Who are you?” he sputters, his voice cracking. “What do you want with me? This is a mistake, you’ve got the wrong man—”
I stop in front of him, looking down with disdain.
“Is your name Ryan Connors?”
He goes still. “Yes.”
“Then I don’t have the wrong man.”
His throat bobs. “What do you want with me? I didn’t, I didn’t do anything—”
I tilt my head, studying him like the filth he is. “Do you remember Emily?”
The colour drains from his face so quickly it’s almost… interesting. His pupils blow wide, his jaw locks, and there it is, the exact moment the truth sinks its teeth into him.
One name.
That’s all it ever takes. They always give themselves away with a single word.
“She—she asked for it, whatever she said, she lied,” he stammers, his breath hitches in his throat.
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish the sentence.
His head whips to the side, blood spraying from his nose and mouth. He lets out a wet, choking sound, coughing on it.
I step back, flexing my fingers, letting the sting in my knuckles settle me.
“I imagine,” I say, my voice cold, “that what she asked for was for you to stop, stronzo.”
He whimpers, a pathetic sound, and I allow myself a single breath of satisfaction.
He doesn’t get an easy death.
None of them do.
Survivors live with the memory for a lifetime, the least a man like him deserves is a fraction of that suffering before he leaves this world.
My eyes shift downward.
The tools are set out on a metal table. A coil of wire, a few blades, and to the side, a syringe filled with adrenaline. Everything is arranged. Adriano didn’t miss a single step.
I glance over at him, arching a brow. “All my favourites laid out, mm?”
A knowing smirk tugs at his mouth. “Everything for you, milady,” he replies.
I roll my eyes. “Call me that again and I swear I’ll punch you too.”
He laughs under his breath. Adriano is handsome—the kind of man who could dismantle a woman with a single look, tall, all muscle, ink along his forearms, a trimmed beard, a suit tailored to his shoulders, and a gun always somewhere on him.
But as I’ve said, he has never been my type, though that has never stopped us pretending to be a couple when the situation required it.
I love him as I would family, and I know the feeling is mutual.
I turn back to the man in the chair.
His breath breaks in frantic bursts, panic rising the moment his eyes land on the table and the tools waiting there.
“Please—please—no… no, have mercy—”
“But did you?”
When he stays silent, I narrow my eyes. “Exactly.”
My gaze drifts over the table.
“What shall I use on you first?” I murmur, picking up the thin blade. “This one? Or something slower?”
His entire body trembles. “Please… no.”
I step closer. The blade barely grazes his cheek, yet he jolts as if scorched.
“Did you stop,” I ask, my voice low, “when she asked you the exact same thing?”
He crumples, a broken sound ripping out of him, sobs shaking through his whole pathetic frame.
I breath out, bitter.
“Pathetic,” I murmur. “All you macho men strutting around as if the world should bow for you… yet the second you’re faced with someone who pushes back, you fold. You prey on the weak, but piss yourselves when you meet an opponent.”
I lean in, my eyes cold. “As I said, pathetic.”
I trace the blade along his jaw before flicking my wrist, slicing through his shirt and letting the edge bite into his skin.
His scream rips through the room, genuinely music to my ears as blood blooms through the fabric and spills down his torso. The sight of it brings a contentment I don’t bother to hide.
He thrashes against the restraints, uselessly testing them.
I put the blade to work, opening him in all the places that hurt the most while keeping him very much alive, because the end comes only when I choose it.
He cries out again, his head thrown back, his eyes screwed tightly shut.
This stronzo can’t take the slightest bit of pain.
It doesn’t even sting, really, if anything, it reminds you that you’re still capable of feeling something.
The blade against your skin…
His scream drags me out of the trance I’d slipped into.
I reach for the hammer but change my mind almost immediately. We are not breaking bones today.
Instead, I set it aside and choose another blade, and when I stand before him again, he’s already shaking his head at me in sheer panic.
“Stop looking so worried,” I say with a smirk. “You’ll hardly feel a thing.” A low laugh slips from me.
Adriano’s chuckle from behind draws my attention. He is leaning against the wall with his arms folded, a satisfied smirk fixed firmly on his face, he enjoys this far more than he ever admits.
“Shall we begin with a finger?” I suggest lightly. “Or an arm? Perhaps his revolting manhood… or”— I pause briefly—“his head, maybe?” I can’t hide the amusement in my voice. “After all, that is how I usually work. Heads on spikes.” I add, lightly, “Literally.”
The acrid smell of piss reaches my nose, dragging my attention back to the man strapped to the chair.
Horror is carved across his face.
“I heard about you… you’re d—”
A laugh breaks from me. I glance at Adriano.
“Well, would you look at that. I’m famous. Apparently I’ve made a name for myself.”
He only smiles and shakes his head at me, used to my nonsense by now.
I turn back to the man, narrowing my eyes, the smirk falling from my face.
I look at him properly and feel absolutely nothing.
No pity or hesitation, nothing at all.
Then the image of Emily flashes through my mind, that little girl of ten who has already seen how vile life can be, and the rage surges back tenfold.
This is my purpose in this fucked up world.
To rid it of men like him.
Men who traffic.
Men who prey.
Men who rape.
Paedophiles.
And although no one likes to say it out loud, it isn’t always men, but the uncomfortable truth is that, more often than not, it is.
And because I cannot erase Emily’s face, because the fury that awakens in me refuses to fade, I reach for the gun at my holster and put a bullet straight through his skull, sprawling his brains out.
His blood spreads across the floor in a widening pool.
I stand there for a moment, my chest rising and falling.
There.
Justice served.
I should have made him suffer longer, but my temper gets the better of me once again.
Adriano pushes away from the wall and comes to stand beside me. I look up at him, and he looks down at me in return.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I step into him, and his arms close around me. Mine slide around his waist without thought. He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“You’re the strongest person I know, tesoro,” he murmurs.
We remain like that for a moment, his arms around me, and I take the strength I need from his embrace. Gradually, his eyes drop to the blood on the floor.
“I’ll have the clean-up crew brought in.”
I manage a nod. “Finish this properly. Leave my signature, and let word get out that Death has struck again. I want every fucker afraid, looking over their shoulder, knowing I’ll eventually come for them.”
I step back, squaring my shoulders, and turn my attention to the man once again.
Still, justice never feels like enough.
My gaze lingers on him, and the image begins to blur. For a fleeting second, it isn’t Ryan strapped to the chair, dead and bleeding out.
It’s him instead. But he’s smirking, and very much alive.
“Kukolka.”
The sound of his voice alone, even if it’s only in my head, is enough to make revulsion crawl through me.
I blink, and the vision snaps away. That bastard is still breathing, still capable of hurting the innocent. But I am patient. I know how to wait.
His time will come.
And when it does, the floor will run red.