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But one thing at a time.
"It's up there somewhere," he agreed, back to pacing. "This blood is never going to come the fuck out."
It would have, had he bothered to get the floors redone, like they'd been needing for over a decade. But with the protective finish worn down? He was right. We would need to sand it down ourselves, or rip the floor up entirely.
"Found it," Emilio said a moment later as I stared down at Leon Lastra's body, still coming to terms with the fact that Giana had been the one to take the bastard out. Sure, he deserved it. But that was some Biblical shit I had not seen coming.
The luggage was really more of a medium trunk, ornate and leather, which likely cost a fortune. We were in crisis mode, though. We would deal with replacing it some other time. Luckily, my father had very little attachment to possessions once they weren't shiny and new anymore, so he didn't even flinch as Emilio dropped it down next to Leon's body, clicking it open.
"It's big, but..." Emilio started, making me sigh.
"But so is he," I agreed. "Fuck. Go get some trash bags and an ax," I demanded of one of my father's men who took a moment to give me a grim look before rushing off.
It wouldn't be my first—or last—dismemberment. And the shock of it wore away once you did it the first time.
There were plenty of tricks to the trade, though, things you learned through personal trial and error.
Serrated blades didn't cut through bones easily. Slashing didn't cut a bone.
Your best bet was a weighted blade, like a machete or ax which would help break the bones when you swung them with enough force.
Of course, a chain saw was always a great choice. But the neighbors would definitely hear that. At least an ax was quiet.
My father's man returned a moment later with a box of black bags and a heavy ax, handing them both to me, stepping away, message clear. He wanted no part of this dirty work.
I'd been shoveling shit all my life in the name of this family. What was one more disgusting act?
I took one of the bags out of the box, set it open on the floor, then removed my jewelry, putting it down on the table. Everything else I had on would need to be burned, but I'd preferred to keep my crucifix which had been a gift from my mother, and my watch worth down payment on a very nice car. With that done, I wrapped the head, legs, and arms in black bags to try to minimize splatter, and I got to work hacking.
By the time I was done, sweat was slicking every inch of my body, with blood spread up my arms and down my face, but Leon's body was in enough pieces that I could shove the rest of him in the trunk relatively easily, stick the rest of the bags in there, and let Emilio zip it up.
"If there is a tarp anywhere, it would be good to have that for my trunk," I told my father, who had been staring at me like a demon that had just crawled out of the pits of hell. I probably looked just like one, too. And I realized in that moment that my father had not even needed to do one-tenth of the evil shit I'd needed to do in my life. Because he liked impersonal kills with a gun. He liked delegating the ugly work.
I'd never known that luxury.
He'd been tossing every horrifying, disgusting job at me since I was eighteen years old.
"Emilio and one of your guys can handle it, handle it," I added. Normally, I wouldn't trust my father's men, but with Emilio there, I knew everything would be handled correctly, even if that meant it took twice as long. "I would do it, but I am covered in evidence right now," I added, waving a hand at my ruined suit, my bloody hands and face.
"Right. Yeah. That will work. And the others can get to work at ripping up the floor, burning the wood and clothes."
Thankfully, the fireplace was one of the few things that worked in this place, mostly for just this reason. You never wanted to leave a trail of anything in this lifestyle. We lit fires all year round. This wouldn't be cause for concern to the neighbors.
I stripped out of my clothes, wiped any wet blood off my face with the fabric, made sure my wallet and keys were removed first, then watched as they threw my clothes into the fire, leaving me there in my boxer briefs in the middle of the dining room.
"Go take a fucking shower," my father snapped, lip curling; knowing him, likely pissed that he'd never been fit, that he never would be, that everything about me was an external exertion of power, while nothing about him was.
