“I’ll think about it,” I reply with a small grin.
Matteo glances at me once before following the Don out the door. Then it’s just me, Elio and a couple of guards who have moved in to watch the show. I grab a chair, pulling it behind me. It screeches against the tiled floor, and I watch as Robert’s face contorts in agony.
I spin the chair around and take a seat on it, back to front, folding my arms and resting my elbows on the top. Apart from Robert’s groans, the room is silent as I wait for him to make the first move. Then he proves he’s even stupider than I thought because he decides to spit in my face. The glob lands directly on my nose and I grimace as I clean it off.
“Three hours,” I say vaguely.
“What?” he squints, looking at me with terror-filled blue eyes.
“You’ll be dead in three hours. I was going to make it two but that stunt just elongated your suffering,” I inform him.
“You sadistic bastard!” he growls, leveling me with a look of disgust.
Two of my men step into the room, dragging a large metal trunk across the floor. They place it beside me and pop it open to reveal an array of instruments. My favorite toys, so to speak. I grab a silver spear, its tip sharp enough to cut through metal. It glints in the light.
“I use this to poke bears,” I inform Robert. “Metaphorically speaking of course. By bears I mean the daunting ones, men bigger than me, arguably stronger. The ones with a lot of fight in them. This is a long-range weapon. You are more of a rat, though, aren’t you, Robert?”
I cock my head to the side when he doesn’t reply, a grin spreading across my face.
“This,” I continue, pulling out a scythe, brandishing it in my hands. I had it made specially. It’s smaller than the average scythe, still curved and sharp with a dark handle that fits perfectly in my hand. “This is perfect for rats.”
Finally, Robert lunges. He rises and tries to make a run for it just as I’d been expecting. Before he can take a step though, I stand up. With a swift kick, he’s sprawled on the ground again, writhing in pain. The expression on his face lights a match in the darkness within my chest.
It’s the face of a man that knows his actions are futile, hopeless.
I’ve seen that look time and time again. The despair and fear in men’s eyes as they look at me, knowing I’ll be their executioner. A rush rolls through me at the sight of it, doesn’t matter how many times I get to see it. That look never gets old.
“Please,” Robert starts to beg. “I’ll do anything. I have a lot of money.”
I scoff, “You think your paltry dirty money compares to the wealth of the Vitales?”
Getting bored, I gesture towards the chair with the weapon in my hands. My men move immediately, reaching for Robert and tossing him into the chair. They wrap some ropes around him, tying him despite his pleas for mercy. Once he’s sufficiently bound, I walk over and reach for the back of his head, gripping his hair tight enough to rip some strands.
I drag the scythe slowly across his face, ignoring his blubbering.
“Shhh,” I murmur, trying to concentrate. “This will only hurt a little.”
I slice across his cheek, earning a whimper. Tears fall from his eyes rapidly, mixing in with the blood sliding down his face.
“This building isn’t exactly soundproof, Robert, so I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t make too much noise, I’ll cut back down to two hours, okay?”
He doesn’t reply. I smirk before grabbing his hand. I pause to watch him and he swallows thickly at the expression on my face.
“Remember, Roberto, don’t scream,” I state and then I’m slicing the scythe through his thumb.
It cuts away cleanly, the appendage landing on the floor with a little thud. Robert gasps for a second and then he’s howling loud enough to wake the dead.
I sigh softly. We’re going to be here for a while.
Three hours later and the man on the chair in front of me is more dead than alive. He’s bleeding from a hundred cuts,slashes across his skin, his arms and legs. I took my time carving into his body. Right now he’s like a canvas, an art form of my very own making.
“Hey, Elly,” I call, looking back at my brother who surprisingly hasn’t left.
He’s taken a seat at the edge of the room, watching the entire process curiously. There’s no maliciousness in his expression and I can tell he has no interest in taking part in the torture. He’s simply observing quietly. Usually I would have told him to fuck off, but he’s a grown man, and if he wants to watch me cutting up a man for three hours, he’s more than welcome to.
“Yes, Rafaelle,” he replies dryly.
My gaze turns back to Robert. His head dangles forward and I can’t tell if he’s still breathing or not. He should be though. I made sure to pull back a little.
