“Feels good to be humiliated, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
“Sorry?” I smiled, nearing him. He flinched. “Not good enough,” I gritted, the same time my hand swung and down just as quickly,Veritàslicing his dick off in one swift snap.
He howled jumping around, hands flailing, the same time Helena’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes darting between Grafton’s spurting crotch and his discarded cock lying at her feet. Trembling, she hiccupped on dry sobs.
“Pick it up,” I pointed my blade at her. Slowly, she shook her head. “The dick or your head, you choose.”
Shaking harder now, she bent down and picked it up with the tips of her thumb and forefinger, her expression unconcealed disgust.
“Stuff it in your mouth, Helena.”
Her eyes jumped to my face. “What?”
“You were blowing him when I walked in, now put the fucking dick in your mouth and suck on it.”
“Please, Remo,” she cried. My brow shot up and she quickly shoved it between her lips, gagging as she did so.
“You’re even worse at sucking cock than you are at meddling in shit you shouldn’t.” It was all the time I was prepared to waste before I let my rage unfold.
Five minutes later, breathing hard, I glanced around, appraising my artwork. Vengeance was a motherfucker especially attached to a weapon likeVerità. The stench of iron, urine and shit hung in the air, sickeningly sweet, filling my nostrils and a surge of euphoria hit me. Nothing beat the rush of spilling blood, not even fucking a pussy hard.
“That was fun.” Gian came up behind me.
I turned, grabbing a towel as I did to clean my blade. “Check the security room. Lower basement. She normally doesn’t record these orgies, but we can’t be too certain. Rip out anything you find, I’ll meet you outside.”
“Call in a cleaner?” He pointed to the dead bodies.
Wiping the last blood speck off the blade, I looked at him. “We leave them and the let the circus come to town.”
“You’re one crazy fuck.” He laughed, walking away.
“I am.” I grinned, concealing the blade.
Outside, I lit a cigarette and opened the SUV door. About to slide in, a flash of something on the roof caught my eye. I studied the spot, smiling. “Keep watching, Koro, you’ll be mine soon enough.”
eighteen
. . .
Ishika– 31 years old
The hospital always pulsated differently at night. Softer hisses, gentle breaths and stagnant beeps, all under control, monitored while lights flickered faintly, painting everything in monotonous shades of white and gray. Outside though, the streets of Salerno, Italy were still wet from rain, scooters cutting through puddles, the air heavy with an ocean breeze.
The late shift at Healing Heart Medicare, a private hospital that boasted polished floors and quiet corridors to the chaos that sometimes crashed through its emergency doors, felt almost like a normal workplace tonight instead of a front line.
At thirty-one, as a sixth-year neurosurgery resident, I lived in the strange in-between where I carried the weight of authority without yet wearing the title of Chief. Junior residents deferred to me not just for my skill, but because of my relation to Dr. Carlo, the CEO of the hospital, aware my name opened doors that experience alone couldn’t, a privilege that embarrassed me even as I wielded it to save lives. I remained grateful though, for the fortune of being adopted by Dr Carlo rather than arrogant about the power it gave me.
Interns watched me too, for cues before they spoke, knowing my word held merit. Trauma consults came to my phone first before they filtered upward, my time barely mine as it belonged to scans lighting up with bleeds, to pagers that shattered whatever hour I'd managed to claim as rest, to the unspoken expectation that when something catastrophic rolled in, I would already have the plan.
Tonight was quieter than usual, and the stillness pressed against my instincts to not be fooled by it. After spending the last four hours in surgery assisting Dr Carlo, the CEO and a world-renowned neurosurgeon, whose precision bordered on art, I welcomed the rare lull. One day, I told myself, I’d command an operating room the way he did, steady and unquestioned. For now, I leaned against the counter outside the nurses’ station and sipped coffee strong enough to wake the dead, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue.
Across from me, Brandi flipped through a patient’s chart before rubbing her abdomen in dramatic protest. “I swear, if I have to eat any more of those bland chicken wraps, I’ll committee a crime just to get prison food.”
“You wouldn’t last a day in prison,” I teased, stretching the stiffness from my neck. “You’d organize everyone’s meds even if they didn’t want it, clean the cells, and turn the inmates into a book club.”
“Damn right, even killers need stories,” she shot back, grinning.
