“You okay, boss?” I turned to find Gian staring at me, his brow ridged in a frown, his fingers clasped around a whiskey glass.
Wordlessly, I dropped the cigarette and while grinding it with a heel, took the drink. I downed the contents and let out a low laugh. As crazy as it fucking sounded, I had a stalker. Me. The ‘give no fucks’ killer, had a stalker. Who in their insane fucking mind would want to stalk me? Perhaps someone with balls big enough to try intimidating me.
Revenge was anyone’s game if the players were strategic.
I’d felt the intensity of eyes on me on a few occasions now, but I let it ride, not wanting to believe it. The first time the sensation crept over me, I was gutting a man in an alley, the second, I was railing a woman on the table in her husband’soffice. That was almost four years ago. Somehow, this person was a persistent fuck, pretty much like me and probably why I found it fascinating.
Then the women I’d fucked began disappearing. Those that sucked my cock, landed in hospital too traumatized to talk and those I fucked, disappeared. Never to be seen or heard from again.
Given my dark persona, I didn’t care but my brother did. Lorenzo cautioned me against drawing attention to myself. He believed someone was trying to set me up. I laughed off the suggestion until the flowers became a frequency I couldn’t ignore.
A tiny niggle at my nape suggested those red eyes I’d witnessed in my dream and my stalker, were connected. How though and why, I still had to figure that out.
Handing the glass to Gian, I went back to Tony’s body, picked up my blade and sheathed it then had a quick chat with one of the dons, giving no further thought to my stalker.
four
. . .
Koro– 34 years old
“You’ve got game,” the soft words in my ear made me smile.
“How many?” I asked.
“Plenty.”
“Good.” I cut the call, mounting the stone steps and slipped through the opening between the large wooden doors.
Usually, when people were about to step into a confessional, they examined their conscience, reflected on their sins and prayed to God for guidance. Me, I entered the dark stall with one intention, seeking absolution for others. Not because I cared but because I felt sad. Sad for their families. For the spouses, the children and sometimes the lovers, if they deserved pity.
As a priest sat down behind the covered partition and recited a prayer, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Bless me, Father for I’ve sinned. It’s been too long since my last confession.” I smirked, wondering if it made any difference professing my transgressions. There was no one to punish me and even if they did, I’d welcome it with open arms, because the retribution I unleashed on those good for nothing assholes, was worth it.
“Perhaps we should start with what you’ve done?” the priest encouraged when my silence ensued and my mind whirled, excitement brandishing a chaos that I controlled with ease.
“I’m not seeking penance for what I’ve done, Father. I’m asking forgiveness for what I’m about to do.”
“That’s not how this works, child.”
“It should.” I smiled.
“May I ask what you plan to do that requires mercy before the act?”
I stood. “Send sick souls to purgatory.”
I heard his flustered gasp. “Are you planning to kill someone?”
“Not just one, Father.” Silently, I walked out, leaving him talking to himself.
Outside the church, I mounted the black Kawasaki Ninja H2R, not bothering with a helmet and sped off the second the engine roared to life. Forty-five minutes later, I reached my destination and dismounted. Grabbing what I needed, I hid my motorcycle behind a dark alcove of trees then crossed the road.
Someone once told me that fishing was a relaxing sport. You secured the bait, tossed in the line, sat your ass down in a chair with a drink of your choice and waited. Waited for that moment your tip dipped, the line tapped, you jumped from your chair and reeled in that fish, hoping it was a big one. When you did, pride sat heavy on your chest for a bit until the next catch.
The same could easily be said for a taker of souls, a serial killer if you prefer. You researched your target, set the parameters, sat your ass down and watched. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to present itself before you reeled it in. Sometimes you were given one, other times you had to take it.
Precisely what I was doing right now. Taking one. And while I put my plan into action, I regularly found myself wondering whether I was seen as a serial killer or vigilante. The FBI statedthat serial killers were motivated primarily by anger, thrill-seeking, financial gain or the desire for attention. Their victims often had something in common, like physical appearance, gender, race, demographics or some specific oddity.
