What’s he doing in a shithole like this?
As much as I hate being here, with a thousand creative ways of mass murder playing on repeat in my head so I can leave tomorrow and finish my little side quest of ending Leo’s miserable existence, I’m also disturbingly fascinated.
Inside the house, everything seems the way I pictured it. Modern, opulent as fuck, golden and beige.
His men are already lined up like obedient little statues, hands folded like they’re posing for a funeral portrait. Even his house staff is mirroring the same cult-worthy posture. It’s like they all rehearsed for this weirdly synchronized display of loyalty or fear. Or perhaps both. That’ll be fun.
Isabella is also there, swallowed behind the black leather jackets and well-sewn suits. She doesn’t seem like she’s his daughter. She seems as if she’s his pet, bracing for a whipping to punish her disobedience.
The dead silence is finally shattered by the obnoxiously slow, theatrical footsteps, each one dragging more than the previous. Add in the loud thuds of that stupid cane … because God forbid anyone misses the grand entrance of big, bad Daddy. What a wuss.
He doesn’t come off nearly as terrifying as he’s clearly dying to be. Honestly, he looks like he’s trying too hard. Midlife crisis in a tailored suit. Probably around fifty, black hair slicked back like he’s in some noir film, gray at the temples for that “wise but dangerous” aesthetic.
“I see you came willingly,” he says, his voice hoarse and dominant.
“If by ‘willingly,’ you mean I was basically dragged here, sure.”
He hums with a stupid side smile. “You’ve got a spine. I like that.”
His accent is noticeably heavier than hers, thick with that deep Italian drawl, just enough to feel like he wants it to add weight and make him seem more dangerous.
“Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you stop being a person.”
I let out a scornful chuckle. “You’ll turn me into a pumpkin?”
“My daughter brought you to my house,” he hisses, prowling closer to me. “My house, my rules.”
“I thought I came here to protect her.”
“Correct. Now leave. Nora set up your room. Don’t make her waste the effort.”
“Wait … you don’t expect me to live here? What, so you can play God with better access?” I walk closer to him. “Maybe you’re just a lonely old freak playing puppet master because no one ever stayed unless you bought them.”
All of his men grab their guns, almost in sync.
Isabella’s eyes glisten under the warm light of the room and turn red, almost as if she’s ready to cry.
She shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. “No,” she mouths.
“I don’t play God, boy.” He smirks. “I am God.”
“Yeah, right … I’m not doing it.”
In an instant, he takes out his gun and shoots … his fucking daughter! What the fuck?!
She groans and presses her hand to her bleeding side.
“What the fuck are you doing?! She’s your fucking daughter!”
“You failed her,” he says without looking, tossing the gun on the ground. “You’ve got fewer chances left than you think.”
He turns his back and walks away.
Isabella’s eyes are soft and fearful, nailed on mine, while no one tries to help her.
Son of a fucking bitch! I’m gonna rip his goddamn throat out and make him choke on his own blood.
Everyone is dead serious, some of them turning their backs to go wherever the fuck they want. Wes has a sadistic and stupid smirk on his face, and that only makes me want to punch him more.
