Page 124 of I'm sorry, Princess

I wipe my hands on a dead man’s shirt and open Instagram. My girl posted, picture of her desk, coffee in hand, the caption#busyday. I like it instantly. Satisfaction spreads in my chest as I scroll through. No more fuckers in her comments, no more vultures in her inbox, Andres blocked them all. I went through her DMs too, yeah, I’m toxic, obsessive, whatever the fuck you want to call it. But I’m pleased. She never replied to a single message. Wifey material. Mine.

I flip to my camera to send her a selfie. The reflection stares back, sweat dripping, shirt soaked, blood smeared across my jaw. My grin feral, eyes sharp, screwdriver still red. I laugh, then shut it off. Too much. If she saw me like this, she’d faint.

Headlights blind us, and Lev’s van pulls up. He jumps out, whistling at the sight. His men load the bodies, both the dead and the nearly-dead, dragging them off like trash bags. The basement will be busy tonight.

I climb back into my Lamborghini, slam the door, engine roaring like a beast. Andres is still breathing heavy, wiping blood off his face, glaring at me.

“We still going to the gym?” I ask him, smirking like a fucking child who just got away with murder.

He doesn’t answer. Just glares harder.

I grin, slam the gear, and peel off. “Alright, alright. I guess we burned enough calories.”

We head straight to CURSED, Lev’s place, with the basement waiting. And tonight, the basement will echo with screams.

Timeless still rattles in my skull as I pull in front of the club. Lev’s already dumped the survivors into the basement, three broken dogs chained on the concrete, waiting for me. Andres went home to scrub the blood off; me? I’m still wearing it like cologne. Let them stare.

I don’t bother with the main entrance. I cut through the back, down to the basement where the stink of iron and fear is thicker than the air. The three are sprawled on the floor, wrists and ankles shackled, chains rattling whenever they twitch. Pathetic.

I snap a picture, their swollen faces, eyes wide, mouths cracked with blood and terror, and send it to Dante.

Picture sent.

Me:Do you know them?

Dante:They are Luciano’s guards.

Me:Arrange me a meeting with him.

… Five minutes later.

Dante:Deposit 5, Westline. In 4 hours.

Perfect.

I shower upstairs, change into black, shirt, jacket, slacks. Sharp. Death always looks better in a suit. When I goback down, Andres is there, leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone, the van waiting outside. The long wooden boxes already unloaded. Coffins.

I dump water over the bastards. They snap awake, flinching, coughing, and then they see what’s waiting for them. Their eyes go wide, screams tearing through the room. Begging. Pleading. One pisses himself, the smell mixing with the iron.

“Please, please! I will tell you everything! Please!” one sobs, voice cracking like a child’s.

“Who hired you?” My voice is flat, empty, the sound of inevitability.

“Don Luciano!” He cries harder. Exactly what I thought.

“Why?” I lean in, deadly calm.

“You killed—” he cuts himself short, his colleague glaring at him, warning him to shut his mouth.

I smirk. “Do they really think they have a choice?”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” he shouts back at his friend, shaking, and then the words spill out. “You killed his nephews!”

I freeze, then laugh low, bitter. That’s what this is.

“You killed his nephews,” he repeats, desperation shaking his words. “Those that went after that Russian girl, to kidnap her.”

My jaw tightens. Fuck.