“It originated in 800 BC. So a fuck ton of years ago. Then it reemerged in medieval times,” I answer myself casually, pressing the blade deeper into his side. His fingers flex open and shut, and his eyes flicker with anguish as he desperately tries to remain silent. “They used to do it during public executions for traitors. Skin those motherfuckers alive in front of a live audience. Sort of like we’re doing now.”
I remove the boxcutter’s pressure from his side and hold it up to admire the beads of blood clinging to the blade.
“How about we give you a taste of what to expect? I think we’ll start with your thigh. It has more than enough fat to slice off.”
My fingers pinch at the skin until I have a couple inches of flesh trapped in between.
Vincent’s vow to remain silent and stoic during this session goes out the window as soon as the blade slices off the pinched skin. The room immediately fills with his screams as the skin peels away from his body in gruesome, bloody fashion.
I go further than initially intended, flaying several more inches down the front of his thigh. Then I ease back to appraise my work.
“What do you think?” I ask the others in the room. “It looks good on him, doesn’t it?”
Several of my men laugh, eager to watch the entertainment. They love this kind of shit. So long as it’s not them on the receiving end, they don’t mind torture. Our enemies deserve it.
For the next hour and a half, the war room is full of Vincent Rosetti’s bloodcurdling screams. He’s a shaking, sweaty, pallid mess by the time I lay the boxcutter down and look at his deformed body. We’re not even halfway done.
But he’s missing entire strips of skin now.
From his thighs. His arms. His chest. Even the bottom of his foot.
That last one was a true delight, as he arched his back and his screams bounced off the walls.
“Take him to his cell,” I say, wiping the boxcutter’s blade clean. “We’ll resume this later in the evening. I have other matters to attend to.”
My men dutifully do as I ask.
Vincent will be tossed in his cell, bloody and naked, with no care offered to him. Not even a single pill of Tylenol. Not a drop of water or a crumb of food.
He gets nothing. Nothing but pain and humiliation until I grow bored and then kill him.
It’s what will happen to his boss eventually. Once I figure out who staged today’s attack.
I shower and change into clothes that aren’t splattered with Vincent Rosetti’s blood. Then I go see mia ballerina.
But first I stop by the kitchen to pick up the small plate of Nevaeh’s favorite dessert. Earlier I had told Ms. Poitier to have the kitchen staff prepare it—double fudge chocolate cake, moist and layered just like Nevi prefers.
Ms. Poitier is waiting for me in the hall outside her room.
“She’s in there,” she says. “But she hasn’t been doing well, C.”
“I’ll take it from here.”
I crack open the door slowly. The lights are off. The room is quiet except for the sniffling sounds coming from the small curled up woman on the bed. She’s lying face down in the pillows with her arms folded around her head.
The sight of my wife crying like this pulls at something deep inside me.
“I’ve come to give you this,” I announce.
She pushes herself up once she realizes she’s no longer alone. Turning over so she can sit up, she peers at me from the bed with eyes misty and startled.
“Cael?” she croaks. “You’ve come to see me?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I wanted to check on you.”
FIFTEEN
Nevaeh
