He's too far gone to answer coherently, just sobbing and bleeding and probably praying for death.
"That's what I thought." I stand, looking down at what's left of Khalid Al-Zahrani. "You know what the worst part is? You actually thought you deserved to own her. Thought your money made you worthy."
I raise the knife above my head and stab him straight through his dick, impaling him to the chair.
"It didn't. Burn in hell."
Before we leave, I pull out my phone and take a single photograph.
We clean up quickly. Plastic sheeting rolled and bagged, weapons secured, evidence of our presence eliminated. By 3 AM, we're gone, leaving Khalid Al-Zahrani's body arranged like a message to anyone else who thinks women are for sale.
The drive back to the villa is quiet. Matteo knows better than to comment on what just happened, on how personal I made it, on how much I enjoyed it.
"Boss," he says finally as we approach the gates. "You're covered in blood."
I look down at my suit. The expensive wool now dark with Al-Zahrani's blood. My hands, my shirt, even my face probably has spatter on it.
"I know."
"You want to clean up before going inside?"
"No. I need her to see exactly what I am."
"You sure that's smart?"
"I'm sure it's honest." I get out of the car, my movements heavy with exhaustion and something like satisfaction. "She asked me to stop lying. This is my truth."
The villa is dark except for a few security lights. I find her standing at the top of the stairs, backlit by the hallway light, watching me enter.
She's wearing simple pajamas, her hair loose around her shoulders. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Me covered in another man's blood, her perfectly clean and composed.
"Who did you kill?" she asks, her voice steady and calm.
Not "did you kill someone." Not "is that blood." Just acknowledgment and a simple question.
"Khalid Al-Zahrani. The man from Dubai who was willing to pay seventeen million euros thinking he could own you."
She nods slowly, processing this. Her eyes travel over my blood-soaked suit, taking in every detail of what I've done. I wait for horror, for revulsion, for the inevitable moment when she realizes exactly what kind of monster she's been sharing breakfast with.
Instead, she asks another question.
"Did he suffer?"
I pull out my phone without a word and show her the photograph.
Her face remains perfectly still as she looks at the screen. No flinch, no gasp, no reaction except for a slight tightening around her eyes. When she looks back at me, something dark and satisfied settles in her expression.
“Poetic ending,” she says quietly. “Thank you.”
"He understood. By the end, he understood everything. He’ll never hurt another woman again."
Something shifts in her expression. Not horror, but understanding. Maybe even approval.
"Are you hurt?" she asks finally.
"No. It's not my blood."
"That’s good." She turns and walks back down the hallway toward her room. At the doorway, she pauses. "Goodnight. Sleep well. I know I will."
