15. Cast
15
CAST
I tap my finger against the skull of the Italian man who just ruined all of our fun by falling asleep mid-torture session. I mean, how pathetic do you have to be to not be able to handle a couple of stab wounds and some light electrocution? I’ve had worse nights just for fun.
"Wakey, wakey," I mock, tilting my head as I slide my index finger beneath his nose. A faint, shallow breath warms my skin. "Come on, Enzo. Don’t tell me you’re dead already."
His head lolls slightly, but he's still out cold, a twitch running along his jaw. I sigh, feigning disappointment. Then I rear my hand back and crack my knuckles against his skull with enough force to send a sharp, reverberating crack through the room.
The reaction is immediate. He gasps like a drowning man breaking through the surface of the water, his chest heaving, body seizing as a cough rips from his core. His body undulates against the chair, pain pulling him violently back to consciousness.
"Good morning, sunshine," I coo, crouching in front of him, watching the slow return of awareness in his bloodshot eyes. "How was your nap?"
His lip curls, and even before he speaks, I know something shitty is about to come out of his mouth.
"Sei un fottuto topo brutto," he snorts, his head reeling back before he spits a glob of blood and saliva onto my shoe.
See, it’s not the spit that bothers me. It’s the fact that I know exactly what he just called me. A rat.
I crack my neck from side to side, a dark thrill coiling through me, a rippling, electric shiver of destruction and murderous intent. My patience has limits, and this bastard is testing them. Without hesitation, I swing my fist, bone meeting bone with a sickening crunch as his nose caves under the force.
The sound—it’s fucking beautiful. It’s sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted in my life, except Willow.
Enzo howls, jerking in the chair as blood erupts from his ruined nose, spilling in thick, warm rivers down his face, dripping onto his torn shirt. He pants, chest heaving, but his glare still carries defiance.
"I'm sorry, sunshine," I whisper, lowering myself so that my gaze is leveled with his. "Do you wanna say that again in the language we both know?"
His breathing is ragged, his face a twisted mess of pain and defiance, but he still manages to sneer. "I'm not telling you shit, rat. "
The blood trailing down his face reminds me of a macabre Picasso painting, something grotesque and chaotic, an accidental masterpiece of my own making. I almost smile at the sight. Almost.
I click my tongue, shaking my head. "See, I thought you were smarter than that. But to call me a slur in my home?" I let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Buddy, you’ve got a death wish."
I shake out my hand, letting the sting of impact dissipate. My knuckles throb, but the sight of him—bruised, broken, and still holding onto some pathetic sliver of bravado—makes it all worth it.
"You know," I muse, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my knife, flicking it open with an easy, practiced motion. "I was going to be nice."
His eyes track the blade, but he doesn't flinch. Stupid. Brave. Doesn't matter. They all break in the end.
I drag the tip of the knife along his jaw, slow, teasing, just enough pressure to let him feel the promise of pain. His breath shudders, but he keeps his lips sealed tight.
"Still nothing?" I tilt my head. "That's fine. I like when they make me work for it."
His nostrils flare. Then, because he’s an idiot, he rasps, " Vaffanculo. "
I chuckle, pressing the blade just beneath his chin, tilting his head back. "Aw, now you’re just trying to make me blush."
Then, without warning, I drive the blade into the meat of his thigh.
He jerks, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as the chair rattles beneath him. His body shakes, struggling against the pain, but there’s nowhere for him to go.
I lean in, voice soft, almost tender. "You ready to talk now, sunshine?"
His breath is ragged, his body twitching, but his eyes—his fucking eyes still hold that glint of defiance.
I grin. "Good. I was hoping you'd say no."
Blood dribbles from his nose, mixing with the sweat beading along his forehead. He shifts, wincing, then a familiar expression flickers across his face. Not just pain—frustration.
Then he laughs. A hoarse, choked sound that rattles in his chest.
I pause, grip tightening on my knife. "Something funny?"
He spits again, missing my shoe this time. "You’re wasting your time, rat, " he grits out, eyes burning into mine. "That note? It’s a fake."
The words sink into my skin, slow and sharp, like a splinter I hadn’t noticed until now.
I don’t react—not immediately. I just stare at him, not knowing what to really say back to him. "What did you just say?"
He breathes hard through his nose, his face a mess of blood and bruises. "The calling card—the emblem—it’s wrong." His voice is tight, thick with pain. "You think the family would fuck up their own signature? You think they’d send me with a sloppy message like that?"
I glance at Matteo. His expression hardens, jaw ticking as he steps closer, looking at the picture again.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath.
My grip on the knife tightens. "So what you’re saying is… someone set you up."
Enzo chuckles again, the sound bitter and broken. "Looks like they set you up too."
A slow, burning heat coils in my gut.
Someone played me.
Someone thought they could use me as their fucking pawn.
I exhale through my nose, my fury ice-cold and razor-sharp. Then I lean down, pressing the flat of my blade against his throat. I press a little harder, just enough to make his pulse jump.
"Good news, sunshine," I murmur, my voice a deadly purr. "That just bought you a few more minutes of breathing."
Then—my phone rings.
I don’t move at first, debating whether to ignore it, to finish this moment before I pick up. But something gnaws at the back of my mind.
I answer without looking at the caller ID, eyes still locked onto Enzo.
“Hello?”
“C-Cast,” Willow’s voice comes through, sharp and panicked, sending ice through my veins.
My entire body locks.
“Vincent—he’s?—”