by A. Zavarelli
Blood drips from my palm, and I glance down to find the scalpel crushed in my fist. The dark crimson stokes the tempered fire inside of me. But I can’t allow it to take over. Because if it takes over, it will end too quickly.
And Donovan deserves no such kindness from me.
Rightly so, I’d have gutted him slowly and painfully simply for being a rapist pig. But that isn’t what motivates me to see his blood dripping onto the floor. It was who he touched. The one person he knew he couldn’t.
And she let him.
Closing my eyes to take a breath, I count the steps to the door out of habit. Repeating them backwards twice more, I am calm.
I pluck a pair of pliers from my tool case and a dental mouth gag from the drawer below. Since the room is small, built for function, the distance between the table and myself is only five steps. I count them twice as I lay out the necessary tools on the tray table and retrieve my rolling chair.
The table itself is adjustable, and I lower it to a more appropriate position before taking my seat. Donovan attempts to jerk away from me as I strap his head in place. They all do this, and I always find it irritating. They should know once they are strapped to my table there is no sense in fighting the inevitable. This is the difference between men like Donovan and men like me.
Where I would accept my fate and face it with dignity, he simply cannot. When I remove the cloth from between his teeth, a slurry of curse words flies from his mouth along with some spittle. It only makes it easier to slip the dental gag into position without a fight.
Once the task is complete I take a moment to sit back and admire my handiwork. Farrell taught me that I should always take pride in my work. I’m not often a proud man. I feel I do my job and I do it exceedingly well. But in this instance, I glimpse a small taste of the pride I was reared to believe I should feel.
“I usually do this bit after,” I explain to Donny as I retrieve the pliers from the tray beside me. “But I thought this might give us a few moments to chat. A warm up if you will.”
“Fuck you,” Donovan slurs around the metal.
I extend the pliers into his mouth and grip hold of a front tooth first. “This may hurt a wee bit.”
The tooth comes out with some wiggling and a fair amount of squealing on Donovan’s part.
“For a lad who likes to hurt women, ye sure do scream a bit,” I note.
His reply is muffled by the swelling and blood pooling in his mouth. My work continues without a pause, the tension leaving my body when his screams finally die down. That’s the adrenaline kicking in. But it won’t do him a fat lot of good for what I have in store.
The room is quiet save for the moaning of the pliers as I work, and I’ve had some time to piece my thoughts together.
“Does it interest ye to know, Donny, that before you or Blaine ever laid a hand on her, she was mine?”
He meets my gaze, and there’s humor behind his. He’s mocking me with his eyes. In all the time I’ve known the lad, I’ve only ever received mocking glances from him. It’s of little consequence to me. He won’t be laughing when I’m through with him.
“I saw her first that night,” I confess. “Before anybody else.”
He mumbles something indecipherable again, and I shake my head to silence him.
“A mouse in a field full of vultures.”
I wasn’t one of them. My lack of social skills and my position within the organization wouldn’t allow me such a conquest back then. Things are different now.
Only I’m not.
When all of Donny’s teeth have been collected, I stuff the cloth back into his mouth to soak up the blood. I clean up my own hands and set the dirty tools aside while I seek out my next one. I pause over the scalpel again, my usual companion. There’s something soothing and beautiful about a cleanly cut line. Donovan won’t be getting any such mercy from me.
Most men within the syndicate prefer the solid and steady weight of a revolver. A speedy way to do someone in while maintaining your distance. Killing is a messy business either way, but I prefer the knife. Ending a life is generally not something I do without consideration. Killing is personal, and so the act itself should also be.
My purpose in life has only ever been to kill. It was the sole reason for my existence as a wee lad. To learn how to kill. They taught me well. There is not anything else on this earth I can do so efficiently. Conversation, understanding others, making decisions. These are not things I am well versed in. But killing, I can do. Without question. Without hesitance. Without a shadow of doubt in my soul.
I was born to take life.
There is an endless amount of rage burning inside of me. I only ever have to tap into it, drawing off small amounts to complete each task I’m given. It is nothing more than a business transaction. A dot of the i or slash of the t. I don’t particularly feel much of anything when I dim a human light.
Few things can invoke strong emotions in me. I do not like emotion. I do not understand it. Attempts to understand it only result in frustration. For this reason, I stay away from anything that provokes emotions I don’t understand. But death, that is something that I understand.
I’ve been called a sociopath. A monster. But I don’t fancy myself one. I’m simply a man doing a job that needs to be done. If it wasn’t me doing it, someone else would be. The men that I kill, they’ve all had it coming. They knew what they were getting themselves into. They’ve either done Niall wrong or threatened the syndicate in some way. And threats have to be eliminated, just like vermin.
One of the few moral codes I still abide by. I will protect my brethren at all costs.
In doing so, I’d like to think the men who meet with me are given a swift and honorable death, in most cases. Terror isn’t a balm to my soul. I do not draw enjoyment from the act itself. I do not feel anything. I prefer precision and cleanliness. A quick slash. Nothing that involves brute force or unnecessary dawdling. Most of the lads don’t know it, but I truly don’t enjoy the torture aspect. In those cases, I’m only doing what’s necessary and effective. It isn’t the pain I seek from the clients, only the answers. If they tell me what I need to hear, then it goes easy for them. The choice is ultimately theirs.
With that being said, Donovan is a different occasion altogether. He is one of our own. A man who took an oath to remain loyal to the syndicate. To his brethren. He broke that oath. Betrayed his own. The penalty for such a transgression remains the same as the first world that I ever knew. Death.
I believe it’s the common thread that holds all tight knit groups together. The imminent threat of death casts a shadow over wrong doing so large, so dark, that only the boldest or most ignorant of souls will choose to ignore it.
Still, it happens. I’ve laid to rest two other members of our syndicate before. The problem is only one of them was sanctioned. It did not stop me from enjoying that event, regardless. I strongly suspect, as the metal table scrapes against the floor behind me, that I will enjoy this time too.
Pleasure is a foreign emotion for me. The few times I’ve sampled anything remotely enjoyable, it has troubled me. It stands to reason that anything so intoxicating in potency should not be good. Like the pills they used to give me. Addicting. A feeling I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid.
For tonight only, I will allow myself this one small act of pleasure.
When I turn back to my captive, he is bucking against the table in an attempt to free himself. He should know better than to think I’d half-arse any of his binds. He’s been working with me for five years.
I pick up the scalpel and twirl it in my hand, indecision weighing heavily on me. As I said before, I don’t like to dawdle. I could make his death as quick and painless as all of the others before him. But I won’t. Because in this rare circumstance, Donny has managed to invoke a very human reaction in me. One I’ve not often felt before.
These reactions almost always seem to revolve around her. Sasha. She’s worse than the pills. Worse than
I’ve killed for her once, and I did so gruesomely. If ever there was a time I channeled my psychopathic tendencies, it was then. Donovan has brought upon me that same familiar urge. The demons who want to come out and play.
My fingers tighten around the scalpel when I think of him inside of her. Touching her skin. Tasting her in a way that I never can. Feeling her softness all around him. Her scent, her sounds, her hands. My body shakes with the force of loathing I have for myself and for her.
I don’t want her. I never wanted her.
Light spills into the room as the door cracks open, followed by the tiniest of gasps.
Before my gaze even moves, I know it’s her.
Her eyes dart to where Donovan is strapped to the table and back to me, scalpel in my bloodied hand. Her pupils grow even wider as clarity descends, and she stumbles back a step with the one thing I never wanted to see from her. Fear.
She can hate me. She can despise me. But fear me?
No.
I want to go to her. To comfort her and placate her with lies. But I won’t lie to her. I can barely even speak to her. I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say.
Conor pops his head in the door beside her, and I narrow my eyes in his direction.
“Sorry, Fitz.” He grabs Sasha by the arm and tries to usher her away. “I had to take a piss. I didn’t know she was down here.”
My chest heaves as he wheels Sasha away with certain revulsion and disgust on her face. She knows what I am already, she didn’t need a reminder. And like a switch has been flipped inside of me, this entire situation has managed to stoke my temper.
Mocking laughter echoes from behind me, and I turn to find Donovan has managed to spit out the bloody cloth.
“You should see your face,” he slurs.
I ignore him and retrieve the pruning shears from a hook on the wall along with a metal basin. His hands are already strapped down at his sides, and he starts carrying on again when I wrap a tourniquet around his arm.
I rest the metal basin on his torso, and each snip of his finger is followed by a resulting thud into the dish. By the time I wheel around him and start in on the second hand, Donovan is on the verge of passing out. I slap him on the face and throw some cold water at him before finishing up the job. When all of his fingertips have been removed, I grant him a small reprieve only to keep him from going into shock.
“You’re a sick fucking freak,” he snarls. “You know that? It all makes so much sense now.”
He’s never appeared more ridiculous than he does at this moment, toothless and with bloody stumps at the end of each hand. And yet I indulge his antics, against my better judgment.
“What does?”
He grins, and it’s gruesome with the blood all over his face. “Have you sampled her? Because I have. Plenty of times.”
I smile back at him politely. Donny is too dense to understand that won’t work on me. He’s hoping to provoke me into giving him a quick death. But he’s wrong. I’m in control. Always in control. There’s nothing he can say to change that. My limits have been tested by others much smarter than him.
I turn my attention back to my tools, seeking out another for what I have planned next. But the following words out of Donny’s mouth prove I am wrong. He is capable of pushing me in a way I could not have predicted.
“She was doing it to protect you. Did you know that? The stupid whore thought she needed to protect you. I saw you that night Ronan. I saw you hauling Blaine’s body out to your car. And Sasha saw me. She knew I could have ratted you out any time I felt like it. So she kept me quiet, with her mouth as payment.”
Heat spreads through my veins, threatening to tear me apart and devour everything in this building if I don’t cop on to myself.
I grab the drill from the table and flick my eyes to Donny’s one last time before it’s guaranteed he won’t be able to get a coherent thought out.
“If you were so ready to die, all ye had to do was say so.”
I reach for his trousers and pull them down, allowing the cool air to hit his shriveling dick. This was a part of him I never had any intentions on seeing. But it’s also the part of him he touched her with.
“I hope it was worth it,” I tell him.
“I have a failsafe,” Donovan threatens. “You should know that. If I disappear, Niall will find out what you did. What you and Sasha both did. I can promise you that.”
His words won’t change anything, but they always try regardless. There isn’t a thing on this earth that can save him from me now. When he recognizes that on my face, Donovan’s eyes finally abandon all hope.
My face hurts, and when I step forward, it occurs to me that I’m smiling.
***
Once I’ve washed up and disposed of the body, Conor and I drive to Donny’s duplex to clean up. It’s standard procedure any time a member of the syndicate dies under these circumstances. If they’ve paid a visit to me, it means they can’t be trusted. That stands for their home and possessions as well.
Donny was many things. A liar being one of them. But his words about the failsafe won’t stop playing through my mind. I believed him when he said that. I saw clearly the conviction in his eyes. It wasn’t a bluff. He was so sure that would save him somehow.
I doubt I’ll find it here, in his flat. But it won’t stop me from checking.
I’ve never been to his place before. Never saw a need for that, fortunately. It’s in a seedy part of Roxbury. The paint is faded and peeling and the yard is overgrown. I suppose he felt spending his cash on whores and cocaine took precedence over everything else.
“Do you need me to keep a look out while you take care of the lock?” Conor asks as we walk around the back.
I shake my head. The lad is still very green. Doesn’t have much in the way of common sense, but he’s a good kid. I trust him. Which is more than I can say for most people. I have my lock kit on me, but I doubt I’ll even need it. I pull out the keyring I took off Donny’s body and hand it over to Conor.
He stares at it for a moment before he starts trying keys. On the third try, we have a winner. The door swings open, and we are greeted by the last thing I ever expected at Donovan’s house.
A dog.
“What the hell?” Conor echoes my confusion as the small furry beast on four legs comes bounding in our direction.
She has a black and tan face with a white stripe down the middle leading straight towards a big black nose. Two ears that are entirely too large for her head perk up as she leaps up and down on the kitchen tile and makes a variety of odd noises. Her tongue hangs out the side of her mouth as she attacks my leg and I try to shoo her away.
“What is he doing with a Corgi?” Conor asks.
“A Corgi?” I repeat.
“Yeah.” Conor points at the fluff tugging on my pant leg. “That’s a Corgi.”
“How can ye tell?” I try to push it away with my foot.
“Uh, it’s pretty obvious,” Conor replies. “What are we going to do with it?”
I stare down at the animal and find myself at a loss for words.
“You aren’t going to kill it,” Conor says. “Are you?”
I push past him, slamming the door behind me. I do not kill animals. Or women. Or children. Conor should know this, but people always misread me.
“We can sort it out after,” I tell him. “For now, ye need to focus on clearing out anything we find here. Cash, paperwork, documents with his name on it. The only thing I want left when we’re done here is his furniture.”
Conor glances at the dog one more time and then shrugs. “Whatever you say, Fitz.”
Chapter Three
Ronan
“What does it eat?” I ask.
Conor points at a bag of dog food, and I grab it without looking at the label.
“It’s got a pink collar,” Conor observes. “And it looks like there might have been a tag on there at some point.”
<br /> “So?”
“So it probably belongs to somebody,” he says. “I don’t see Donny buying a dog a pink collar. Or even taking care of one for that matter. There weren’t any dog toys or even food in the house. Maybe it’s one of his whores.”
The lad does have a point, but it makes little difference now.
“I could take it to the pound,” he offers. “Someone might adopt it.”
I imagine the place he’s speaking of, and all I see are four cement walls and nothing but darkness. I don’t like his suggestion. I ignore him and grab a few other things off the shelves before I walk to the checkout.
When we get back to my house, I hand Conor the key and pop the boot on the beamer.
“Feed it for me, will ye? I have business with Crow.”
“You know you can’t just leave it for days at a time, right?” Conor asks. “You’ll have to come home every few hours and let it out. Make sure it has food and water. You know, actually keep it alive.”
“That’s what I have you for,” I tell him.
He grunts and shuts the door, and I wait until he’s inside before I drive back to the club. Once inside, I head straight to the bar and order two glasses of Jameson neat. Crow won’t be here for another thirty minutes, so I’ve got time to kill. I walk towards the rear of the building, slipping into the VIP room unnoticed. Or so I’d hoped. Within two minutes of entering, Kaya slinks in my direction.
“Hey, Ronan,” she greets me. “Want some company tonight?”
“No,” I answer tersely.
The same answer I always give her.
She rolls her eyes and follows my gaze to the stage. It’s no secret I’m here every night that I’m able. When Sasha works. She doesn’t know that, but Kaya does. She found me back here in the shadows one night and has taken it upon herself to bother me ever since.
Lately that hasn’t been as frequent on account of me having to babysit Crow’s troublemaker Mack. She came into the club and turned everything on its arse with her lies and her agenda. But regardless of that fact, Crow was mad for the girl and I was saddled with guard duty until he sussed out her motives. That, I reason, is how Donny must have been getting to Sasha. Coming here when I was preoccupied so he could put his filthy hands on her.
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