Page 21 of Felix (4 Seats #2)
Chapter Twenty-One
Felix Greyson
A s I slide behind the steering wheel of my car, the engine’s growl is a low promise of the violence that’s simmering just beneath my skin. It’s six thirty in the evening, prime time for shadows and scum to crawl out in this city. I’m one of them tonight—a predator on a very specific hunt.
The car lurches forward, tyres gripping the asphalt as I weave through the traffic.
My grip on the steering wheel is tight, knuckles white, pulling over a block away from the Korean gang’s hangout.
I kill the lights and sit back. The neon sign buzzes and flickers, a beacon for every lowlife with business darker than the night itself.
They pass through the doors like sheep to a slaughter.
But there’s one wolf among them I’ve come to claim.
“Come on out, you son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath, eyeing every figure that emerges.
Through the windscreen, the world is a stage, and I’m the unseen audience until it’s time for my cue. There he is— the mark. He’s laughing, unaware that death’s shadow is cast long and close.
“Gotcha.”
I slip out of the car, all coiled energy and silent steps. My hand clutches the rag, soaked with chloroform, hidden and ready. Boots on gravel, I edge closer, waiting for him to be alone. I have to time it perfectly. I can’t risk any of his gang spotting this.
“Hey!” I bark, springing from behind the parked car. The guy turns, startled, confusion stamped on his face for a half-second before I clamp the rag over his mouth and nose. His eyes go wide, hands clawing at my forearm—the desperate dance of prey caught in the jaws of the inevitable.
“Shh, it’s naptime, bastard.” My voice is a whisper, a lover’s caress twisted into something dark.
He bucks and writhes, but I’m a goddamn mountain, unmoving, relentless. His muffled screams are music, the rag of a conductor’s baton silencing the orchestra of his panic. The struggle fades, and his body goes limp in my arms.
“Nighty-night,” I say, dragging him back to the boot I left open and waiting like a gaping maw.
I dump him inside, unceremonious, just another piece of trash to be disposed of. My heart hammers a brutal rhythm, the thrill of the hunt surging through me like a drug. I slam the boot shut, a satisfying end to the first act. Now, the real performance begins.
“Showtime,” I growl to myself, sliding back into the driver’s seat.
I pull away from the curb, the streetlights streaking by like the fading pulse of the city. In the rearview mirror, I glimpse at my reflection—scarred throat, dark eyes, and a grin that doesn’t quite reach them.
I pull up to Matteo’s warehouse, the dirty stench of this godforsaken place mixing with the scent of gasoline and cigarette smoke. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins. I can’t fucking wait to get my hands on this bastard.
With a fierce determination and a low growl escaping my lips, I wrench open the boot and forcefully drag the Korean man out by his feet.
His eyes widen in terror when they meet mine, full of malice and hatred.
As I lead him towards the table, an assortment of tools glint in the dim light, promising pain and suffering.
Despite his screams in his foreign tongue, I relish the sound—it’s like a sweet symphony to me.
“Let’s start with those pretty fingers of yours,” I say, smirking as I grab a pair of pliers and move towards him.
The pain in his eyes only fuels me further as I rip off each finger, one by one, blood spurting and staining the concrete floor beneath us.
His muffled cries for mercy do nothing but strengthen my resolve.
Matteo wants a message sent, and this fucker is it.
“You never imagined this outcome when you dared to cross the Riccis, did you?” I jeer at him, relishing in the fear that radiates from his trembling body.
With precise cuts, I slice off small pieces of skin from his arms and legs, savouring the sound of his agonised screams. As I meticulously sew them together into a twisted patchwork with fishing line, I can’t suppress my amusement at his pitiful state.
And when I place the grotesque little cap on his head, smirking at the way the blood stains his hair, it’s as if I’ve completed a masterpiece of art.
With a wicked grin, I reach for the knife and run my fingers along its cold, sharp edge.
The anticipation builds as I position it over his limp dick, ready to make my darkest fantasy a reality.
As I quickly slice off his dick, crimson blood spurts out in all directions, splattering the floor with a gruesome pattern.
He tries to scream but can only gurgle as I forcefully shove his severed appendage down his throat, silencing him forever.
The rush of power and adrenaline courses through me as the light fades from his eyes as his dick chokes him to death, knowing that my twisted desires have been unleashed.
Fuck, that one was fun . A twisted smile spreads across my face as I laugh at the body in front of me.
The thrill of the kill is still coursing through my veins, and I give one final kick to his lifeless form before dragging it back to my car.
The city lights fade behind me as I speed towards a selected spot, the familiar feeling of satisfaction building in my chest. As I reach my destination, I carefully string him up in a tall tree, his mangled limbs dangling grotesquely in the wind like some macabre marionette.
It’s a sick and twisted display, but it brings me a strange sense of joy.
“Let this be a warning,” I whisper before returning home to Aurora. My heart still races at the thought of what I’ve done, my dick hard in my pants.
I step into the house, quiet as a fucking shadow. Aurora’s probably fast asleep by now. I head to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and letting the water wash away the blood and grime. It’s like some twisted baptism cleansing me of the night’s sins.
I wrap a towel around my waist and enter the bedroom.
The sight of her sleeping form brings me peace.
She’s so beautiful and innocent. I slide into bed behind her, wrapping my arms around her.
She doesn’t stir, lost in her dreams. I softly kiss the nape of her neck, feeling her warmth, and let sleep claim me.
“Hey, Felix,” Aurora says the next morning over breakfast. “My publicist asked if I’d do another signing in the city, but I said no.” I raise an eyebrow at her words, her mouth full of fucking toast.
“Really? Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious. Her book has been a hit, after all.
“Because it’s been out for eight months, and it’s time to move on,” she explains, stirring her coffee. “I have new ideas, you know? Like a story about a possessive assassin who kidnaps a woman he just met and makes her fall in love with him.”
I laugh, the sound rough and low. “I love you, too,” I tell her, the words raw and honest.