Confucius once said that if you are set on the path of revenge, dig two graves.
He wasn't wrong.
I suspected nothing would be left of the pakhan of the Bratva, or Dominic Konstantinov for that matter.
New York, New York
November 2016
“Mercy,” the man begged, while he choked on his own blood spilling from his mouth onto the white-as-snow cold, shiny, marble floor. He desperately tried to stand up, but his broken legs didn't allow him to.
His hands, tied with a rope, rested on his back, while sweat dripped on his open wounds, making him cry out in pain.
Chuckling, I grabbed his hair and slammed him against a corner of the iron table. When his agonized cry echoed through the room, I enjoyed the sounds.
Who needed music? What a shame I couldn't record it, so I could listen to it later in my apartment or the car.
Ah, I lived for those moments. “What did I do? Please tell me. Is it about the money? I’ll pay you double.” Picking up a steel hammer along with a few nails, I held the knife between my teeth as I kneeled behind him, straddling his back as he plunged onto the cold, concrete floor with a thud. “This is insane. Please let me go!” he demanded, using the last bit of bravery he had.
A sinister smile spread across my face as I wrote the name of my beloved on his back, making sure every cut hurt as much as my heart did. Then I hammered a nail into the wound to permanently brand him with it.
He whimpered, cried out, and then begged again.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
On the second letter, he shut up.
On the third letter, the smell of his urine filled the space.
On the fourth, his body gave up as the last breath left his lungs.
No, it wasn't only because of what I did.
I prepared them before giving them the brand. I tortured them for hours, hit and broke everything.
This action was always saved for the grand finale.
I lived for the moments when I could inflict unbearable agony on them in my basement. Each victory was accompanied by a bottle of whiskey afterward.
The deaths of those who wronged me helped me survive ‘til I reached my ultimate goal.
Booze provided the oblivion I needed to get my strength back.
A day spent without killing was a worthless day.
You would think I was a monster.
You wouldn't be wrong.
Rosa, my Rosa, was taken from me.
And the pakhan of the Bratva was stripped of the last straw keeping his sanity intact, and he settled into the darkness, so consuming he never wanted to come back from it.
What was the point?
