Deviant Fixation

by Valencia Carmelita

  For posterior commands, the other two assassins place their undivided attention on him. He merely provides a nod of indication. The well planned carnage begins.

  Serge aims a gun in the direction of the enemy guarding nearest to them. A poisonous and anaesthetic dart shoots out silently, piercing the neck of the guard.

  The man doesn't feel what's pierced him. Within seconds, his knees slouch. Instantly, he collapses to the ground in sudden death.

  A couple of guardsmen rush towards him. The others start visibly panicking and aiming their rifles around.

  Within seconds Vladimir and Yigor splay out razor sharp spikes and begin whisking them in their directions.

  Thin red lines tore through their necks, swiftly widening. Vladimir inspects pleasingly as blood spurts forth from their wounded throats. They topple forward. Unable to scream, all of them gurgle, drowning in their own blood.

  The three Molotov assassins dare not step foot into the moonlit clearing, where the fresh corpses now lay in their a pool of dreadful crimson.

  The stench of raw blood sent his nerves on fire. He along his cousins, remain enshrouded in the shadows. They stealthily move forward into the area behind previously guarded doors.

  Inaudible male voices can be heard ahead. They continue forward and soon enough they decipher all the spoken words.

  From an eroding platform, the assassins peer down into what was once a small factory.

  A dim lantern set on a dusty desk, illuminates the visible three occupants below.

  Two of them were Huxley and Grigori dressed in trench coats. They faced a stoutly shrewd man in business blazer and top hat.

  This man acknowledged by the alias Antonio Bellucci. A staunch rival of the Molotov empire. An emboldened adversary, mistakenly overlooked.

  Vladimir suppressed a chuckle over such impudence arrayed by any proceeding the reprieve his uncle rarely offered.

  Only fools would challenge the Molotov empire. Their fates replaced under his deathly clutches. Such cretins were meant to perish.

  Perhaps why he was most favoured nephew of his uncle. The other reason that he was Dimitri's only sister's son. His uncle had loved dearly, his little sister Anastasia Molotov Nielsen; including her children, most specifically Vladimir for the entirety of his existence.

  "Belluci, you've tested our patience time and time again." Huxley spoke sternly, underlined with obvious threat.

  Antonio shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "Time..it's either for you or against you." He smirks insolently, catching a glimpse of his wrist watch. "Guess for whom it is for now."

  "Your foolery outweighs shit!" Grigori hissed, infuriated.

  "Tsk tsk tsk.." Antonio shakes his head in apparent mockery. "Sparing opponents..the path of cowardice."

  Huxley reminds acridly. "Lets disprove that now, shall we?"

  Grigori glowers at Antonio. "I'll restore my father's honor."

  Antonio chuckles. "Quite the reason for this little visit, eh?"

  From the backdrop of shadows, crept out more than a dozen heavily armed men. Rifles pointed in the direction of Huxley and Grigori.

  Vladimir looks at the other two assassins besides him. He merely gives a nod in cue. Within seconds, Serge shoots a poisoned dart. It pierces the forehead of the guard standing in the middle.

  Just as the man topples to the ground, both Grigori and Huxley dive behind near by crates. They whip out their concealed rifles from under their trench coats. What commenced next, horrid gunfire on mass scale.

  The assassins remain enshrouded by the shadows as they deftly climb down to ground level. Ducking away from the bullets whizzing overhead.

  Vladimir produces out his last few spikes. He whisks them towards a couple of men approaching on the left. Immediately they begin choking while blood sprayed out from their slit throats.

  Out of sheer panic, the ones next to them start shooting in the shadows where now he no longer hid.

  In a blink of an eye, he had crawled into the darkness behind them . He launches forward and kneels on one knee, while producing out his trademark silver gun.

  In swift reflexes, he shot the remaining all dead before they had the chance to turn around and face him.

  Head bowed, the smoke steaming from the barrel of his gun, he remained still, kneeling on one knee; as if he was praying. Brief memories of his childhood in a an orthodox cathedral flood his mind. His mother's graceful face, smiling down at him. Angelic.

  Moments of silence elapse. The chaos within him steadies. Yet remains encircling his mind.

  Serge and Yigor amble out of the shadows, faces still obscured by the hoods and masks. Grigori and Huxley unite along. They arrive to a solemn ensemble before Vladimir's kneeling figure.

  "Step out, Belluci.." Vladimir commands quietly. His bone chilling voice, echoes off the walls. "I know exactly where you are.."

  He along with the other two assassins were specialized and trained in detecting the slightest of movements. All three of them knew exactly where Antonio crouched in hiding.

  Most specifically, Vladimir could hear the man's ragged and frightened breathing as if he was infront of him.

  The discord within Vladimir's mind was flowing over control anew. Akin to froth foaming down over a mug full of hard liquor. Yet this experience is triple the intoxication of any alcohol.

  He desires to feel with his bare hands, the sensations of taking another's life again.

  It's been far too long ...

  Serge groans in frustration over the man's refusal to reveal on his own. He heads straight for the nearby column. Halting before a large crate, he swiftly shoves away at it with both gloved hands.

  Revealing a trembling Antonio. The crate slams against an eroding machinery. It disintegrates into pieces upon impact.

  "N-No ! P-please !!" Antonio begs dreadfully. He waves his palms in defence.

  Using both hands, Serge grabs ahold of Antonio's collar and picks him up. Swiftly tosses the man away at full speed. Antonio screams as he crashes on his face right before Vladimir's stealthy boots.

  Terrified, Antonio's eyes gradually trail up over the boots,the robes and freeze at the belt. The insignia of a Silver Dragon encircling a Christian Cross, gleams under the dim ray's of the moon.

  He was unable to affirm his sight. A legendary emblem belonging to an infamous man, he had only ever heard of before yet never had the misfortune to witness until now.

  "S-Silver D-Dragon !!" He gapes in recognizable horror. "T-The legends c-can't be t-true..."

  "Oh they are.." A cold, deadly whisper leaks out of the silver mask. "..you'd never survive to confirm them.."

  "N-No p-please s-spare my l-life! I'll enlist the locations to you !!" Antonio beseeches, rearing back on to his knees. "This mistake won't occur again!"

  Sapphire eyes gleam down with frigid temperature at the entreating man. Vladimir voiced an icy whisper. "Fore time, your man Rosetti revealed us the calibrations willingly..."

  Antonio's eyes distend in alarm.

  A cruel smirk plays at Vladimir's lips, hidden from others under the mask. He straightens to a standing position, eyes focused on his kneeling prey. He begins softly. "It's been far too long..since I've had the pleasure of extinguishing a foe.."

  "N-No ! P-Please !" Antonio's tremulous voice echoes around them. "I wasn't a-aware of your relations to t-the M-Molotovs !"

  "Shhh..." Vladimir inclines his head, pupils dilating with insanity. "This will be fun...let's enjoy while it lasts..."

  Terrified sobs escape Antonio's mouth. He turns at the other men for any hint of sympathy. Besides Serge and Yigor's faces still concealed, Grigori aims him a venomous stare.

  Huxley diverts away sternly in the direction of the moonlight.

  "H-Have mercy !" Antonio helplessly reaches a hand towards Huxley. "I s-swear I won't cross you again!"

  "Ofcourse you won't." Grigori aims his gun at him threateningly. "This ends tonight."

  "I'll be waiting out in the limo, take y
our time.." Huxley addresses Vladimir and the other three men.

  Huxley was unable to endure hearing the man's sobs. Nor could he witness what would proceed the mans wretched fate.

  One time had been enough of a traumatizing experience. He was solidly acquainted by the torture Vladimir was capable of. Subsequently, he had avowed he'd never again stand to witness it on his own volition.

  He strides away without sparing a glance in Antonio's direction. As he rounded the corner of the dingy dark edifice, screams ricochet off the eroding walls behind him.

  Unhinged excitement surges through out Vladimir's frame. He grips Antonio's left wrist by his bare hands, gradually snaps the bone out of its socket. The man lets out plentiful blood curdling screams, as he attempts to struggle away.

  Prior seconds ago, Vladimir had broken each finger slowly, one at a time on both of Antonio's hands. Serge and Yigor were still restraining the man down.

  Grigori whistle's a classical Russian tune, Tchaikovsky. He rocks side to side on the soles of his boots. A lit cigarette delicately twirls in one hand.

  Vladimir isn't compelled to hasten. He thoroughly welcomed the elation with each moment of agony produced by the man.

  After splintering both of Antonio's arms, he moves on to his feet. Shoes tossed off and toes cracks within the deathly snap of his fingers.

  Each fracturing of tendons and bones, served after shocks of delight to Vladimir's mind.

  He commences humming along to Grigori's melody. Antonio wails in anguish. It was one dark tune amongst many. Kept safely locked away in the deeper recesses of Vladimir's mind.

  "Please just shoot me!!" Antonio screeches out over again as Vladimir splinters both of his knees.

  Quite a few of Antonio's bones had pierced out through his skin. Ligament and flesh grotesquely exposed to the rays of the cold moon. Crimson blood stained the flooring in overburdened rivulets.

  Nothing appeared more artful than such a scenery to Vladimir.

  He moves up at the man's clothed torso, shoves a deathly blow to the ribs. Antonio lets out another series of high-pitched cries from the torturous affliction.

  Vladimir's melodic tune increases in volume. His head spun with flourishing thrill.

  He continues delivering violent blows after blows at Antonio's ribs. Fracturing them into smithereens.

  Thick globs of blood clots spew out of Antonio's mouth, like a clogged fountain. Splattering across his assailants robes and mask.

  Vladimir advances cudgeling his fists down. Mind nearly numbed with disarray.

  Within seconds Serge breathes fearfully . "I think that's enough, man.."

  Vladimir finally retracts his fist. Cold eyes inspect a considerable work of art.

  Antonio continues to gurgle out blood from his mouth. Very little remains of his unidentifiable face. Slathered with his crimson bodily fluid.

  Grigori had quit whistling. Both Serge and Yigor had released Antonio's springy arms.

  Vladimir inches forward. He cuffs his hands around Antonio's throat. Seconds to the grande finale of the performance.

  The chaos within his faculty was now at its complete peak.

  He accumulates his full force within his hands. The powerful gesture finally snaps apart Antonio's throat.

  The man's life drains away under his fingertips. A surge of pleasure rocks Vladimir's psyche.

  Baffling his attention instead are visions of her. Vladimir jolts back. The dead man under, totally forgotten.

  In utter shock, he disengages away from the deceased man's throat. Vaulting to his own feet.

  The vast room spun, teetering on edges. He staggers on his boots like a yearning drunkard.

  Excessive images of her, bombard his mind repeatedly.

  A pristine headscarf. Those accusing dark eyes. Long shiny, sable tresses-

  "Fucking hell!" He roars in rapid frustration, blindly launching a blow at a nearby crater. The object splinters into pieces. "Fuck out of my mind !!"

  "Woah !" Yigor yells in alarm. "Easy there, man!"

  "Vladimir !" Grigori nearly reaches out to him yet retreats cautiously. "What the fuck ?"

  Serge slips off his mask, revealing a concerned appearance. "Vladimir, what's wrong ? "

  Vladimir stood his back to them. Visibly trembling. His broad chest heaves. As if he'd just surfaced an extremely darkened abyss. He strives to collect his composure.

  Why the fuck is she here ?

  He blinked a few times under the mask. Vision wavering with perplexity. He knew not why. He hadn't wept in years since the death of his parents.

  Rage brews within his heart. How dare she plague his thoughts on missions. At his fix. Weaving into his art, deforming it. Rearranging his taste. Becoming the meaning of passion itself.

  Wasn't it enough, that she afflicts him in both dreams and reality?

  She had dared dwell in his lodging, and dared mingle with his family. Yet presently, she is unable to spare his mind!

  He was clenching his jaw in a deathly hold. Fūck you, Kashani.

  A few minutes elapse. his heart beat steadies; he finally faces the confused men. Visage still obscured by mask. His voice deadly and calm. "Shower..."

  Grigori nods. "Stop at one of father's complexes. "

  ◆◆◆

  "Ah yeah..." Yigor expresses approval at the stripper currently flaunting her naked derrière in his face. "Very nice piece of áss..very nice indeed..what you think Vlad ?"

  Vladimir aims his gaze monotonously at the swaying stripper, then at his cousin who provides a lascivious grin.

  He returns to peering back down at an untouched glass of brandy on the counter top. Instead he opts to take a leisurely drag at a cigar.

  They were in a nightclub, a seaside cabaret out of the hundreds Grigori and Dimitri Molotov owned.

  It wasn't particularly his idea of relaxation. However, since it was hours before the clock struck a New Year, the other men cajoled him for drinks on the house.

  "Agreed, eh?..." Yigor elbows him for a response. "You can't deny the beauty of that fūcking áss! Look how round those juicy globes are!"

  Vladimir remains uninterested. Yigor refuses to halt cajoling. "I'm sure it's been awhile since you fūcked some good pūssy. Quit moping over that traitorous bįtch, man!"

  Vladimir suppresses a derisive chuckle. It was amusing they all perceived that he had been in love with Ilona.

  Only hell would freeze over the day he decided to love a woman. An impossible route to venture. Nor believe in for that matter.

  There was no lamenting over a broken heart in his month of seclusion. He had been regretful over the betrayal of security for his family. He was self-chastising over the fact that he had failed to provide adequate safety to his family.

  I've failed them...

  Ilona had only been useful for a good fūck sometimes when he'd arrive home, frustrated from work. The release of sexual tension was his task for her. Other than that, she was useless. Never the one to know when to shut the fūck up.