“Oops.” I continue dragging him into my home with ease, letting him rest on the wooden floors of my kitchen.
“That hurt, asshole!”
“That’s absolutely nothing. I’m advising you to shut the fuck up.” And he does.
I consider this my home, and I put a lot of thought into it. My wish was to make something that felt like a home and a place where I can conduct business. Nobody knows I live here except for my cousin, my two adventurous right-hand men, Sara, Adam, and… that’s about it.
Not even my best friends in Belgium know about this place. It’s my way of keeping them safe and sound.
My home is a villa, let’s start there. It’s the kind of place people drool over in magazines and those corny videos on TikTok where celebs show off their homes.
White stone walls, terraces draped in ivy, and a marble fountain in the courtyard. Inside, lots of rooms stretch across warm, polished hardwood floors. Oh, and in case you’re wondering—eight bedrooms, three bathrooms, a massive pool, a forest just beyond the lawn, and a tennis court. Just your average weekend getaway destination. People would think I have parties here every week, but I fucking don’t.
The kitchen’s huge, all rich wooden cabinetry with a marble island in the center. I hardly ever cook, but when I do it’s only for myself. There’s a conference room too—mahogany, leather, built for meetings that don’t quite have ordinary agendas.
My bedroom’s tucked in the farthest corner, with its own terrace and an adjacent room lined with screens and computers so I can keep an eye on everything—and everyone. Behind a hidden panel in the closet is the armory. Guns, knives… all in order, ready for any situation.
And then there’s the basement. Huge, echoing, dark. Nobody goes down there—nobody but me.
Of course, this pig is going to see it as well now.
I punch in the five-digit code and put my hand onto the gel pad to scan. Once I hear the beeping sound as my handprint is accepted, the door opens.
The nightmare for my guest begins, while my dream continues.
7
MI drag him through the basement with ease by his feet, and I can’t stop this feeling of euphoria.
I’m about to help my little hummingbird.
Once we enter one of the three torture rooms, I close the doors behind us whilst he is crying in the middle of the room.
“What the fuck is this place?” I turn around and stretch my arms out then crack my neck from left to right.
“This is an amusement park, pig. Enjoy the rides and don’t forget to scream.” I wink at him and go to my wall of toys. The room isn’t that big, and it looks like an OR.
Gray, blue, navy green, and very clean.
We are in the room where I keep most of my medical supplies. Rows of steel shelves and shallow glass-fronted cabinets are filled with syringes, rolls of gauze, folded sterile pads, a couple of first aid kits, bandage scissors, medical tape, ointment tubes, poison, and bottles of sterile solutions.
And other basic tools like scalpels.
I also have a defibrillator on the wall, a surgical chair in the middle of the room with a little table set beside it, and a chair for me.
Then there is another room where I do the heavy-duty stuff. That room is designed to kill, with black walls, black wooden floors, a wall of weapons, and a large table.
But the deadliest room is the last one. It’s an anechoic room. A place that is so quiet that every sound is drowned out, and it’s maddening. I’m not huge on psychological torture; that’s not my forte. Physical torture, however, is. The room can come in handy, though.
Tonight, I’m not going to torture someone, psychologically or physically.
No, I want to convey a message. I grab a couple of things from the wall and place them neatly on the little table beside the chair.
“It’s time for some fun, piece of shit,” I say as I walk over to him. I pick him up with ease and throw him into the surgical chair. I take a seat opposite him, and my eyes scan the items I prepared.
“Ah!” My hands grab the syringe, and I tap on it a few times. My friend Isa taught me how to do that and why it’s important.
“Why don’t we start?”
