by V. F. Mason
Whenever someone says sorry to me, all I want is to shut their mouths and make them choke on it till life leaves their body.
“Baila, Peter. When in hell, do as the devil says.” Dancing around him, letting the music wash over me, I kick him hard in the back, and he falls forward, bending in two, but the chain keeps him upright, and while he chokes on his breath, he does his best to straighten his body.
I clap my hands, goose bumps breaking out on his skin with each slap, and I announce to him, “While you dance, you are alive. Vamos, baila.” He nods, bumping his head to the beat, and stands up, moving on the glass, his raspy breath a pleasure to my ears. “More energy, Peter. Dance how you danced at the club last night. Or can’t you do it without the pills?” Sashaying across the concrete, I snap my fingers repeatedly to distract him from the music enough so he can’t concentrate on it.
He might find solace in it, holding on to this miserable life of his, but where would be the fun in that?
I stop in front of him, noticing how sweat coats his face and body. He steps harder and harder on the glass, his lips chapped from constantly biting on them. “Maybe you need a little bit more encouragement?”
“I’m sorry, Santiago. I promise—” His loud cry of agonizing pain ricochets through the arena when I stab my knife into his collarbone, right in the middle of his fucking tattoo that I can draw in my sleep, then quickly withdraw it, letting the blood pour from the wound as he breaks into tears. “Oh God,” he whispers, putting his hand on the wound, but it does nothing to stop the inevitable.
“Time is ticking, Peter. Dance. And keep your mouth shut while you’re at it,” I advise him, and he pales even more, fisting his hands before dancing again, barely breathing through the pain, as it’s too much for him.
Strolling to the desk a few feet away from me, I slide my fingers over several bottles, carefully reading all the descriptions and musing over which one is better to use on him.
Finally settling on my choice, I put leather gloves on, and I wrap my hand around it, pouring the substance into the glass before adding water to it.
It flashes a little, bubbling before fully dissolving, and I grin, anticipating my next action.
When one learns to control his emotions, he opens himself up to so many opportunities when it comes to human suffering that it’s sometimes unbelievable.
Peter still dances, mumbling under his breath, but thankfully I don’t hear it.
“You must be thirsty, Peter,” I say and lift the glass to his mouth, ordering, “Drink.” He shakes his head, his eyes begging me not to do this. I chuckle, gripping his chin between my fingers, pressing on his jaw so hard I almost break it, and forcefully push the water into him before closing his mouth and nose so he has no choice but to swallow if he wants to breathe.
Funny thing about death?
No one wants to face it. Even in the most despicable of times of despair where you lie in your own vomit and wish for the ground to open up and dump you somewhere… you still breathe and wish, wish so fucking much to live it’s astonishing.
One of the things I still don’t understand about us humans.
Why are we so attached to this cruel world that shows no mercy to those who most need it and allows the monsters to thrive?
Throwing the glass to his feet too, I’m contemplating another weapon, when his voice penetrates through the fog of my musing. “I have something you want.” His head snaps to the side when I slam my fist into him, his bones cracking under my assault, and he whimpers, the full scope of pain of his nose breaking not even registering in his mind, probably due to the adrenaline rush every dangerous situation inspires in a person.
Nature’s way to protect us during danger. We catch up with all the disasters once the storm is over and calm has settled on us.
Although calm never comes for any of my victims, and isn’t that just magnificent?
I tsk at him. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”
The stupid fucker, though, focuses his glassy, pain-filled gaze on me and rasps again, “I have something you want.” I push my arm back, ready to deliver another blow, when his next words stop my movements. The familiar ringing in my ears starts, along with a red haze enveloping me in its charms with rage and unbearable pain that should always be contained.
Otherwise, it has the power to destroy me.
“Andreas is alive.” He scrunches his eyes, breathing through his mouth, and a groan of distress erupts from him before he continues. “He didn’t die all those years ago.” A roar of denial pushes up my throat while my whole body shakes with all-consuming fury. I take a deep breath, for a second blocking away everything around me, and place myself in the mental glassed cage I imagined back when I was a child.
In this cage, there are no emotions, no physical distress, but more importantly… no one can destroy my peace. If I concentrate hard enough, time will pass in a blur around me, and I’ll be able to get the fuck out of there.
The human mind is so smart it saves us even from ourselves when it feels threatened.
One more breath, and I put a lid on the Pandora’s box living inside my soul and grin at Peter, who blinks in confusion, clearly expecting a different reaction from me. “How tragic. Don’t see what it has to do with you.” I kick him hard in the groin, and he tries to bend in two, his cry of pain so loud it could awaken the dead, but then again, who gives a fuck?
Devastating agony is my best soundtrack to dance to, and I’m about to go for the electric drill when he talks again. Doesn’t he understand self-preservation? Some fuckers astonish me so much I wonder why I’m called the crazy one. “If you don’t kill me, I can tell you a secret no one knows about.”
I lift my brow, barking out a laugh. “You aren’t getting out of here alive, Peter, so hold on to your secrets.” I pick up the drill, pressing on the button, and pleasure spreads through me when the drrrr sound bounces off the walls, and I wink at my victim. “Ready for the real fun?” He opens his mouth, ready to protest, and I sigh dramatically, fed up with this shit. He isn’t that interesting to waste so much of my precious time on.
I bring it to his dick and drill, the blood and flesh spitting in different directions while he shouts so loud I hope his throat will rip from the inside out and he will finally shut up.
If I knew he was such a screamer, I would have taped his mouth.
Finally, when his dick is shredded to pieces with blood pouring down his thighs, I step back and reach for the key, bored out of my fucking mind, and remove the collar from his neck, grinning at the deep wounds that sadly didn’t touch any important arteries.
He falls to the concrete with a loud thud, barely breathing and soaked in blood and sweat—such a contrast to the confident man who strolled into my club, wanting to have the night of his life.
Well, I accommodated his needs, didn’t I?
“He has a daughter,” he whispers, and I lean closer to hear him better. “He has a daughter, and he will come for her.” I still, not knowing how to react to this information, and he turns his head to me, gripping really hard for his useless life. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Are you asking for mercy?” He pales even more and bursts into tears, sobbing so harshly the tears mix with his blood. “Have you ever shown mercy when someone begged you for it, Peter?” I ask a rhetorical question, placing the heel of my boot on his stomach, pressing on it till he chokes on the blood, spitting it all over himself. “No, you haven’t. Why then do you expect it from me?”
“You’re Lucian Cortez’s son,” he rasps, his eyes rolling back, yet he still holds on, knowing if he succumbs to sleep, he will die.
My heart pangs for the first time in ages while I chuckle, hating this fact, as it always takes me back to my childhood. “Yes, I am,” I announce proudly and then fish for the remote inside my pocket, tapping on the red button. That’s when the creaking sound of the iron gates opening can be heard in the distance. “Today, you’ll be the one to pay for this fact.” And with
that, a roar reverberates through the walls so loud I cover my ears, wincing a little, yet pride fills my chest knowing that Leo likes to fucking show off.
And why shouldn’t he?
Peter’s eyes snap open while fear settles over him, and I announce, “I’m done here. But he will have his fun.” He tries to twist his head toward the distinct tapping on concrete and screams, although at this point, it’s just a distressed hiss when he sees the magnificent beast prowling toward him. His huge paws move flawlessly as his golden fur glistens under the light, his whiskers so long they twitch a little on his nuzzle when he bares his teeth at the sight of Peter. “Meet my best friend and favorite pet Leo.” Peter trembles, and I elaborate. “He’s a lion, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I drop onto the chair nearby and watch him tear to pieces my victim who is conscious for most of it, because I made him drink a poison that keeps him awake and enhances the pain by a thousand, so it destroys him from the inside out.
My lion almost never participates in my crimes, but I make an exception for the likes of Peter. They deserve every fucking thing done to them. Besides, he doesn’t eat them, just plays with their bodies as if they are his toys.
Once Leo has enough of his fun, he runs back to his cage, and I click the gate closed, while the information Peter uttered swirls in my mind over and over again.
Until I come to the conclusion that whoever Andreas’s daughter is must be one unlucky woman.
Because she just became collateral damage in my plan.
Monsters and demons come in different shapes and forms in this life, their moods and styles of killing nurtured by their cruel environment.
Some forget about their nightmares, living the good life of perfect people, where their memories are nothing but a bad dream.
Some succumb to the monsters eating at their soul every single day and become even worse, committing such hideous crimes while those people are still alive, and no divine intervention stops them.
And then there are people like me.
A monster who destroys his own kind in order to once and for all end it so no one else suffers from their deeds.
Whoever his daughter is… she better prepare herself for the worst.
La vida es cruel.
Life is cruel.
And so am I.
Chapter Two
“If I only knew…”
Briseis
Briseis
The minute I step out through the double doors of the Chicago airport, I breathe in the air around me and close my eyes, lifting my face to the bright sunlight, warmth filling my chest when the familiar scent of home hits me full force.
Some people think it’s a ridiculous notion that a place can have a certain smell, but for me… Chicago always has this special aura I’ve only associated with this city, reminding me of my roots, and how no matter what happens to me, I’ll find peace and solace inside the borders of this unique and beautiful metropolis.
A city I have been exiled from for ten long years.
“If she stays here one more day, Howard, so help me God! Your bastard cannot stay in my house indefinitely. Get rid of her!”
The familiar devastation travels through me, disturbing old wounds that should have been healed by now but still drip invisible blood drop by drop.
My eyes snap open to see a man in a suit and a chauffeur hat running toward me. “Ms. Dawson!” he greets me, quickly snatching the suitcase from me and bowing a little. “It’s nice to have you back,” he announces, smiling wide, which only deepens the wrinkles on his face, showcasing his old age. He must be in his seventies now yet still stays devoted to my family.
They must be nice people when they aren’t dealing with the family’s bastard.
Patting him on the arm, I wink. “Hi, Eliot. Nice to see you too.”
He points at the black car in front of us with its door already open for me, and without another word, I hop inside, resting my head on the leather seat while the AC blasts full force at my face.
It only adds to the cold sinking its claws into me, freezing my bones so much I shiver a little and curse myself for not bringing a scarf with me.
Glancing around the spacious empty vehicle, I stifle a bitter laugh mixed with disappointment, because another dream of mine is crushed, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Did I really think my own father would come to pick me up when he has ignored my entire existence?
Except the rare occasions where he had to deal with his bastard, to hide me away so I wouldn’t tarnish the Dawson reputation.
Slipping my heels from my feet, I rub the soles a little, wincing when sharp pain slides through my calves and reminds me I should have gone for a different choice of shoes instead of trying to impress family members who couldn’t care less about me anyway.
When will I learn?
No matter what I do, I’ll never be part of their circle, because I’m the daughter of a whore.
Or so they say. I have no memory of my mom. She dropped me at the doorstep of her lover’s house with a letter and several of her diaries, according to the staff at my father’s estate. They were written in Latin, and besides knowing her name, Flora, I didn’t know anything about her. Her diaries are locked away in one of the bank’s safes.
No matter how much I wracked my mind over the years for just a brief glance of her, to maybe discover she at least loved me, I always came up blank, so I gave up.
Shaking my head from all the memories I’ve promised myself to lock away deep in my heart so no one will have the power to hurt me with them, I smile at Eliot, who gets inside and starts the vehicle, smoothly driving onto the narrow road. “Your grandmother is very excited about your arrival.” Right, more like she wants to see if I’m presentable enough for the ton to introduce me to it.
Especially with the upcoming political career Father wants to embark on—he has to have a clear reputation, and the press will quickly figure out my true heritage.
Excellent journalists can be even better investigators who search for the truth until they find it and shed light on it for everyone to see.
Otherwise, why would she have invited me back to Chicago despite banishing me in the first place?
Grandmother hasn’t stayed the matriarch of the family for five decades for nothing; the woman is as smart as she is vicious. She’ll use whatever means necessary in order to achieve her goal.
Since I stay silent, gluing my gaze out the window where the scenery changes in a kaleidoscope of images with the gorgeousness this city represents, Eliot continues to chat. “How was Greece? I bet you enjoyed living there, huh? Perfect place for your studies.”
I chuckle under my breath, thinking that was one way of putting it.
Although I did love Greece, no question about that, I would have much preferred studying here instead of living in boarding schools.
Besides, having a degree in fine arts didn’t mean I had to stay in one of the countries that had been a hometown of authentic art.
“Yes, it’s great.”
“What do you specialize in?”
My hands fist on my lap, my nails digging into my palms, but I focus on the sidewalk as we pass busy streets where people happily walk while talking to one another or rush so fast they change into a blur.
Magnificent buildings, various restaurants, and museums… yes, there is no place like home.
If it were possible to hug a city, I would have jumped from the car and opened my arms wide, ready to kiss Chicago all over.
I curl my toes into the car’s carpet, my feet itching to run around the town and discover all the new places while disappearing in it, soaking up all the energy around me.
The clearing of a throat snaps me back to the conversation at hand. I catch Eliot’s gaze on me in the rearview mirror. “Sculpting.” I decide to keep to myself the fact that I suck at it big time, and the only reason I chose it was so I could convince everyone around me I had talent.
My grandmother on
ce said a mother’s love is unconditional while a father’s love depends on your accomplishments, so becoming someone famous in the art industry seemed like a great plan.
But the truth?
I’m a talentless idiot who should stay as far away from art as possible, because my presence alone near art supplies is an offense to all real artists out there.
“That’s great. Your grandmother has a gift for you. It’s on the seat next to you.”
I pick up the square gift wrapped in red paper with a white bow and rip it open, gasping when I see a book there. “It’s Iliad by Homer!” I exclaim, one of my favorite Greek poems telling of the Trojan war that lasted for ten long years. All because a Trojan prince, Paris, fell in love with Helen, the wife of King Menelaus of Sparta, and kidnapped her.
One tragic love story took so many lives. I wonder if, by the end of it all, they felt it was worth it. What is it like to love someone so much you don’t care about the repercussions of your actions and endangering an entire nation?
“It’s one of the first editions. Cost a fortune,” Eliot says, taking a hard turn, and I lean on the car door, gripping the handle. “Your graduation gift.” Running my fingers over the worn-out bindings, I flip it open. Lifting the book to my nose, I inhale the familiar scent of dust and old paper that I always associate with my childhood, where I forgot myself among the shelves of the library, the only solace I had where no one judged my every move.
Or my whole existence.
Warmth fills my chest along with hope that maybe my grandmother truly wants to see me back home after all, and since everyone has to abide by her orders, no one has questioned it.
She even remembered my obsession with the Iliad, only because Dad said Mom named me after this as she was searching for an unusual name. Somehow connecting with the book seemed like a great idea, because it was the only link I had with my mother.
Pressing the book close to my heart, I smile and put back on my heels, ready to face the world with new determination.
