Page 5
Chapter Five
CRUE
A nother day, another notch on my belt.
Groggy sounds emit from Rocco D’Angelo’s mouth as he begins to stir from his sleep. While he was under the effects of my chemical cocktail, I sat him down in a cheap plastic garden chair and tethered his arms and neck to the concrete floor below us with thick chains.
Rocco’s a big guy, and I’m not risking him breaking free.
He asks the usual slurred questions everyone in his position does as they wake: Who are you? Where am I? What is this place? You sick bastard, let me go. Do you know who you’re screwing with?
I don’t bother answering them anymore. They’ve lost all meaning. If he were a different man, perhaps I’d entertain them. Give him the satisfaction of knowing why I brought him into my kill chamber. But as he is one of Lorenzo Napoli’s decorated capos, I’m sure Rocco knows exactly why I’ve brought him down here. Any second now, reality will trickle through his confusion and our fun can begin. Unlike Fiametta, I injected my concoction into Rocco, rather than feeding it to him. I find the precision of dosing with a needle easier than crushing up pills and dropping them into a drink.
“You’re in luck,” I say, once his feeble mockery and attempt to reason this out passes.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He has the stern gaze of a stone-cold killer. “Nothing about this feels lucky.”
“Yeah, you’re gonna hate what I’ve got in store for you.”
Intimidation amid mindless chatter. I don’t often engage in it, but today is a special day. For the first time in months, I’m alone. “But, on the bright side, at least you won’t be found in a nightclub’s restroom with several men’s piss splashed across your face.”
Men like Rocco are the reason I’ve long moved on from interrogations. The world has become desensitized to the art of torture. Sure, the body may hurt, but the mind doesn’t crack quite as easily. Because deep down they know what I’m doing is nothing compared to what will happen when Lorenzo gets his hands on them. They’d rather die in agony, than face their boss’s wrath.
They’re a unique breed, these Napoli goons.
“I’ve had a lot of help dealing with your kind, of late. From my employer.” I pause for dramatic effect, and intrigue dances in his hazel eyes. He’s the first to know who the masked crusader is, and I bet that somewhere in that thick skull of his, he believes he’ll walk away from here to tell Lorenzo. “Matteo Baronne, of course.”
“That son of a bitch put you up to all this?” He scoffs as if we’re two old friends, shooting the shit together.
“Sure, he did. Made a very compelling argument as to why I should help him, too.”
“Money?” Rocco raises an eyebrow, shifting his neck around to test the rigidity of his metal collar. Don’t worry, big guy, you aren’t going anywhere.
“The money’s good, I’ll give Matteo that, but I’m here for a diffe—”
“Wait a second, do I know you?” Rocco cuts me off. My chemical cocktail must be releasing its hold on him.
Good.
“Do you?”
He does. But I don’t want to spoil the fun for him yet, and I quickly change the subject. “Back to what I was saying. Between Matteo Baronne and a dear friend of mine, I’ve barely had time to myself as of late. And I truly cherish moments alone.”
“Are you one of those sick fucks who gets off on banging corpses?” Rocco speaks in such a deadpan manner that even I want to applaud him. Not for what he says, that’s just vile, but for the fact that he is staring into death’s eyes and refusing to back down.
“No, you silly little man.” There isn’t anything little about the behemoth sitting in front of me. He’s taller and more broadly shouldered than me, and his bald head is nearly double the size of mine. “It’s because I can say what I want. Do what I want. And there are absolutely no consequences. Like telling you I work for Matteo, or that I’m the man who slaughtered your friends.” His face doesn’t move. “You’re the only person I can be completely honest with.”
“And what’s so important that you had to kidnap me to get it off your chest?” He refers to my first two points as if we are chatting about the weather during a lunch break.
“Fiametta Napoli,” I say.
His eyes widen as if my speaking the name of the Don’s jewel is a curse. Shock turns to terror, and Rocco’s limbs start to rattle the chains that are keeping them in place. Perhaps I was mistaken about him. His suave calm is starting to crumble quite quickly.
“There’s something special about that pretty little thing, isn’t there?” I stare straight into his fluttering eyes. He can’t keep them still long enough to focus on anything in particular. Not that there’s anything in my chamber to look at.
Though I change the layout from person to person, the general vibe is always the same. Empty walls, a chair, and whatever they’re bound to.
Most importantly, the six-inch dagger I play with throughout our entire conversation is always the same.
“Managed to stoke a fire in this cold heart of mine.” I go on, as panicked huffs and uneasy grunts come Rocco’s lips. “It’s fitting that her name means flame, isn’t it?”
“Who are you?” he gulps. “Where am I?”
“This again?” I growl and my annoyance starts to build. “I ignored it once; do you really think I’ll do anything different this time?”
Yeah, I was wrong. It must have been shock that kept Rocco cool as a cucumber. Now that it’s starting to wear off, and adrenaline is taking over, his actual personality is starting to shine through. And here I thought, I’d finally met someone who could go toe-to-toe with me.
Ah, well, such is life.
“What is this place? How did I get here?” His eyes narrow as he prepares his final question, but he can’t face me while asking it. “What have you done with my wife and kids?” Rocco’s voice increases in pitch and temper as he thinks about his family. He makes a valiant attempt to lunge at me, but the chained collar around his neck chokes him back into his chair and makes him splutter.
Took you long enough to remember you had a family. That s hould’ve been his first thought, especially since I snatched him straight out of his home while they were in it.
“Thank whichever God you pray to that I have a soft spot for children,” I say, rotating the dagger in my hand until it catches the only light above us and reflects it into Rocco’s eyes.
Men and women are vile creatures. Wasted meat bags that hurt without care and take by destroying. Children are innocent. They aren’t born the monsters they become. They’re molded into them.
It’s a reality I understand, better than most.
“But we aren’t talking about you, Rocco. We’re talking about me. That’s why you’re here and not lying in some awkward position for your boss to find. You’d be wise to remember that.”
“Why me?” His eyes finally settle once the light strikes them.
“Your name is next on Matteo’s list. You’re not special, if that’s what you’re wondering.” That last part’s a lie. Over and above being on Matteo’s list, Rocco D’Angelo has been on mine for a very long time. “You’re an ear that’s about to go deaf, and it feels good to talk things out. Reasoning with the voices in my head doesn’t quite cut it sometimes.”
This conversation doesn’t feel like anything to me. It’s a tendency that’s part of the disease that my military doctors dubbed psychopathic tendencies . And since they made it very clear that traditional therapy won’t work for me, and that I’d be better off institutionalized, I resort to bouncing my wicked ideas off whoever ends up down here.
I’ve learned, through copious studying of the trade, that talking is the root of a therapy session. Some sources approach it with the utmost love, proclaiming it saved their lives, while others believe you’re paying someone to tell you why you’re right in doing what you do.
My results have varied, but the conclusion remains the same: the word of a man on the brink of death, someone who has lost everything and doesn’t need to stimulate or berate you because of learned methods or societal norms, is the perfect candidate to set you straight. There’s no reason to lie when you’ve got nothing to lose.
“Fiametta. Tell me about her,” Rocco brings the conversation back around. Buying time against the inevitable, I presume.
However, since she’s the reason I brought him here, I might as well go along with it.
“First girl who ever caught my attention. Genuinely snatched it by the throat and squeezed until I could hardly think straight, and it turns out she has an appointment in that chair you’re sitting in. Mind you, if I keep up my good work, she should be down here in two weeks. Three, if I want to extend my fun. Life’s a cruel bitch, isn’t she?”
“So, what? You’re taking your anger out on us, because you have to kill the don’s daughter?” Rocco’s trying to find a reason where there is none. Like a puppy chasing its tail. Even if he managed to catch it, he’d only hurt himself by biting down on it.
“No. I’m killing you because I want to. Because it stills the noise in my head and satiates the loudest voice that is screaming to burn this whole world to the ground. My situation with Fiametta is unique. Uncomfortable. Definitely unsustainable.” I toss my head around while I speak. It isn’t doing anything in particular to help me think, but it feels nice. “And yet, I can’t get her out of my head.”
Rocco tests his bonds again, straining every muscle in his body to break free of them. But after a short fight, he starts panting, out of breath, and settles down.
“You wanna know when I knew she wasn’t just another name on a list?” At this point I’m talking more to myself than Rocco. Saying the words that plague me out loud to see if it’ll give me a new perspective. “I snuck into her room the other night. Considered the kill, but it was only a fleeting thought. All I could do was drop down to my knees and—” Worship isn’t the right word. Neither is praise. But other than devouring her cunt, they’re the closest I can find to what I wanted to do. “The really strange part is that I’m following her around. You might think, jeez, Crue, how is that strange ? Well, I’ll tell you Rocco, ol’ pal. It’s because it doesn’t feel like a hunt anymore. I’m intrigued by her beyond the thrill of seeing her flame extinguished.”
I shake my head to fight off intrusive thoughts of Fiametta. My mouth against her skin. My nose close enough to breathe in her scent. My tongue inches out of reach from its first taste.
“Anyway, let’s not go there. I’m going cross-eyed.”
“No, no, tell me about it,” Rocco says, adjusting himself to sit upright in his chair. He’s definitely stalling for time. Smart man, if he actually stood a chance of escaping here.
“Nothing more to tell. See, there’s a duality situation going on. On one hand, she shook me to the core, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at another woman in the same way.” I fiddle with my blade intentionally to keep it in the forefront of Rocco’s mind. “On the other hand, if I kill Fiametta I’ll be avenging my mom. I’ll also be causing Lorenzo tremendous pain and anguish, and he is the one who took the only person who meant something away from me. It’s poetic, really.”
“Your... mom?” Rocco swallows but chokes on the dryness in his mouth. “I knew I recognized you,” he suddenly roars, attempting once more to fight the solid steel chains. This time, he doesn’t give up on the first flex of his oversized muscles.
“You’re right. I was there.” I crack my neck from side to side and stand upright. “You were there. Mom was there too, though I guess we wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.”
“I was just following orders, man,” he is shouting now, with tears streaming down his face and snot dribbling out of his nostrils. His weeping gets worse as I take my first step toward him.
“Orders?” I snap my right arm down to my side, watching his eyes follow the movement of my blade. “That’s what I’m doing now. So, don’t cry about it. We’re both big boys. We chose to play this game, and it landed us where it did.”
“I’m sorry,” he sputters. “Please don’t do this.”
“Are you mocking me?” I raise a brow at him. Obviously, he isn’t. This is his final desperate plea to stay alive. But I can still hear the way my mother said those exact words to him and the others who were huddled around her. “You laughed when she begged for her release. Bellowed, when I did the same. Howled at the moon when you shoved her face into the mud and made her choke on it. Not so funny when you’re on the other side of the knife, is it?”
They used a gun, but my point stands.
“It’s not funny. It’s never been funny. It’s a job, man.” He’s still howling, but for very different reasons.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from this impromptu session with Rocco. Answers to questions I don’t know how to ask? Maybe. But beyond the veil of my small delights, my dagger of justice remains ever focused on its task.
Do I feel better? Yes.
No.
Maybe.
At the very least, I’ve managed to admit my interest in Fiametta to myself.
They won’t change anything. She still has to die. Just like the heavy chunk of testosterone infused meat, screaming Please don’t do this in front of me.
But it’s good to come to terms with the oddness.
“Ah, well, there’s no easy way to do this, so—” I slip the point of my blade into Rocco’s neck. With a flick of my wrist, I sever his carotid artery and within seconds, he’s choking on his own blood.
This is real poetry. Feelings come and go, but taking a life lasts forever.
But if that’s true, why do I want to see Fiametta again?