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He’s a fraud.
Not a real boss.
A real boss would never fall into a trap like this.
I pause when there’s a knock on the door, and Candy’s voice drifts from the other side, asking if I need help.
“No,” I reply. “You can go.”
I won’t risk unlocking it for anyone.
“Now, Sonny,” I say, licking my lips, “I’ve put plenty of thought into how you should die. What would provide me the most satisfaction.” I whistle. “Should I do it myself or hand you over to the Marchettis to gain favor with Cristian?”
It’s not like he can speak, but I enjoy taunting motherfuckers.
He glares at me, and his nostrils flare as he takes deep breaths.
I move around the bed. “But do you know what my decision is?” I dramatically wait as if he’ll actually answer.
He hisses underneath the tape, wincing in pain.
“I deserve to kill you more than anyone.” Bending, I pat his cheek, rip his glasses from his face, and break them. “You fucked with my father. My daughter. My wife. Everything I love, you tried to destroy. Your last breath is for me to take.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “And don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”
I unzip my bag and ease the tub of crab-and-shrimp dip from it.
“Eden, you remember her? She visited the deli today and said they have the best seafood dip, so she bought me a tub. And you know what I thought? Oh, wouldn’t my shellfish-allergic unclelove this?”
I hold his stare, giving a dramatic pause, and he shuts his eyes, the full despair hitting him. He attempts to jerk upright when I scoop out a heaping portion of the dip on a plastic spoon. I push him down, edge the tape off his mouth, and grip his chin to hold it open.
In one swift motion, I shove the bite into his mouth, pull the spoon out, and retape his lips. He closes his throat, his breaths coming out in long drawls.
I drop the tub on the nightstand and plug his nose. “Swallow, you stupid motherfucker.”
He chokes, fighting it, so I edge the tape off his lips and insert my finger inside his mouth, shoving the dip farther. I collect the tub, sit on the edge, and repeat my actions until there’s nothing left.
Then I wait.
My eyes are sinister, my face carnal as I casually watch his allergy kick in.
Hives pop up on his skin like little friends, and his eyes puff up.
His lips twitch beneath the tape.
His skin reddens until it’s so deep that it’s nearly the color of his blood.
Throwing my head back, I enjoy his choking.
But then I return my attention to him, not wanting to miss a moment of him dying.
I hear him attempt to beg for help, but he can’t form words.
When Sonny is finally good and dead, I text Damien to come up.
“I’ve never been happier to see a deceased motherfucker,” he says when he enters the room.
Neither of us bothers to shut Sonny’s eyes. They remain lifeless, red, and pointed at the ceiling. Then comes the tedious task of sawing his body parts. I separate them into two bags.
One for me.
