Page 133 of Raphael

“You didn’t heed my warning,” I drawled. “I told you I’d be back,pinche cabrón.”

They both shot up, ready to run. I responded on instinct. I grabbed the closest thing to me. A statue of Santa Muerte. The saint of death. How fucking appropriate since I’d be the one delivering theirs.

I threw it across the room and it hit Sailor’s father in the back of his head. He stumbled down, his hands waving through the air to hold on to something and his fingers gripped his wife’s Chanel, taking her down with her.

“Ahh, two for one,” I said coolly. “I love it when I get lucky.”

I took three large steps and grabbed the old man’s shoulder, then picked him up. With my other hand, I grabbed the woman’s hair and then started dragging both of them along.

Whimpers. Pleas. Bribes.

I tuned it all out.

They could offer me the world and it wouldn’t fucking matter. The one thing I wanted was Sailor’s love, given freely. Nobody could buy that.

“Save your breath,” I gritted. “You’re going to need it. Right up until I cut your tongue out.”

Sailor’s mother started screaming at the top of her lungs. There was nobody to save her. Nor him. He grunted, threatened.

I surveyed the house and spotted one room. Looked like a pantry without windows. Perfect.

Shoving them both in, I watched as they fell to their knees and shut the door behind me.

“Now, let’s play,” I purred. “Shall we?”

I pulled out a rope and pushed them so they kneeled back to back. I hunched down and shoved their wrists behind them, then bound them together. They fought but they were too weak, and I fought the urge to just shoot them.

The desire to make them suffer first was too great. Just the way they made my wife suffer. Just the way they made Anya suffer.

I straightened up to my full height and pulled my Swiss knife out of my pocket. I’d miss my torture tools but this would do. It’d make them suffer longer.

I watched Sailor’s father and mother struggling against their restraints to no avail. Nobody to fight their battles for them. Nobody to bribe.

“Please, show us mercy,” her mother begged. “Please. Please.”

Each time I thought about the pain in my wife’s voice, rage flooded through me like poison. My fists tightened, seeing the two despicable human beings whimper and cry, begging for mercy.

“Let me ask you a question,” I started casually, my voice seemingly calm while fury boiled deep inside me. “Tell me a single occasion when you offered mercy to Sailor and her sister.”

Silence followed. Eyes full of terror.

“I-I didn’t know,” she whimpered.

“Didn’t know what?” I gritted. “That your husband was raping your daughter. That your husband sold her. That he had your youngest tortured. That he was abusive. Tell me, Mrs. McHale, what didn’t you know?”

No answer.

I took a step towards my two captives and tsked. “You never showed mercy. To either one of your daughters. Both of you are monsters.”

“I only have one daughter,” her old man sputtered.

My eyes shifted to Sailor’s mother. “Mrs. McHale, do you have anything to say to that?”

I could see the struggle in her eyes. To tell me to fuck off, but she wanted to live. Desperately.

She wouldn’t.

Regularly, I had the patience of a saint and could taunt my enemy nice and slow. Today, I was eager to make these two cry. To make them scream in pain.