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Every time I walked into the mansion to meet with her father, she’d hide in the nook near the kitchen. I’d press her against the cold concrete wall in the pantry, and I’d kiss her so hard I’d leave her breathless.
Gently, I would dip my fingers into her pretty little cunt, feeling her pulse around them. I didn’t break her barrier — that was something I wanted to take with
my cock. To see her virtuous essence painted on my dick was my ultimate prize.
It’s all I thought about, until the day we were caught. She was sent away the next morning, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I didn’t even have a moment with her to tell her I’d fallen — so fucking hard and so deep.
And then she was gone.
Since that day, I’ve shifted my focus. Now, my job is my life, and my addiction is the blood on my hands. I’ve closed myself off to any woman who looks at me with desire. Yes, I fuck, but it’s not because I’m looking for love or a woman to give me a family. The only thing I want is to get my dick wet.
My hunger is now satiated by watching evil men die. It’s the only thing I’m good at, and it’s the only thing I find that offers me solace. The building before me beckons. The man inside will soon take his final breath. I’ll hear him beg. I’ll watch him claw at me as he struggles to breathe. And as much as I should feel guilty, I don’t.
With every life I’ve taken, there’s nothing I regret. My blood heats at the thought of ending a life. I enjoy it. I’ve been trained to be feared. I’ve reveled in the men I’ve watched gurgle their last breaths. But with each kill, with every face I see hardened and turn to nothing, I remember a time when I was a man in love.
Following the mark as he makes his way into the building not far from the shithole bar he was drinking in, I wait a beat before I shove open the main door and step into the foyer of a run-down block of apartments.
It’s empty. The only sound is his footsteps as he makes his way to the second floor. I give him time to shut his door, and I hear the lock click before I follow up the stairs. When I reach the floor, I make a note of the doors, only three on this level, and he is the last one.
I saunter up to the door. Not bothering to knock, I rear my left foot back and slam my heavy leather boot into the wood. My Glock feels cool in my hand as I grip it, holding the barrel steady for any attacks, but I’m safe. It’s empty, but I know there’ll be screams soon enough.
Rounding the doorway, I head into the living room to find it empty. The fucker must be hiding in his bedroom. Probably pissed himself already. I continue down the short hallway until I find a closed door. Shoving it open, I come across another vacant room.
It’s the bathroom. Fuck. Turning toward the other closed room which I’m guessing is the bedroom, I smile when I hear something being knocked over. He’s inside. Stepping up to the bright red door with stickers all over it, I kick it open.
I stroll inside, taking in the space, which smells of shit and piss. He’s not an old man, so it can’t be his body giving out. The filth that sits against the windows darkens the room considerably. The street lamp doesn’t even make a dent in the grime that’s caked on the glass.
The man I’m here for is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. It’s facing away from me, so I’m not sure if he has a gun or not. Either way, he’s dying today.
“This is a rather fetching home you have here,” I tell him, nearing the chair. It creaks when he rises, turning to regard me. I take him in — early forties, graying hair, and wrinkled skin. Perhaps he’s already dying, and I’m just here to speed up the process.
“I prayed for an end.”
“An end? Well, I’m here to deliver,” I inform him, raising the gun.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “Have you ever been in love?” His question catches me off guard for a split second before I point the barrel at his knee and pull the trigger. The shot rings off the walls, and even though he collapses to the floor, he doesn’t cry out as the others do. He just smiles, clutching his leg as if it’s going to save him. But I know it’s not, and so does he.
“You want your last words to be about love?” I chuckle, quirking a brow, I watch him bleed into the soft, plush carpet. The darkening patch is spreading, and I’m tempted to rub his face in it, just for a moment.
“It was because of love I’m here about to die,” he utters as if he’s high, drugged out of his mind. Perhaps he is. Maybe I missed him shooting up, but there aren’t any needles lying around, so I’m sure it’s only the beer talking.
“I’ll be sure to put that on your headstone.” Raising my hand, I pull the trigger. The shot rings in my ears, and he slumps to the side. His body curled up like a ball, soaking up the thick, metallic liquid that seeps from his wounds. “Too bad you chose the wrong girl to love.” My words fall on his corpse like sand burying him under the ground.
Turning, I head out of the apartment and into the street. After I’ve placed the call for clean up, I slip into the driver’s seat of my SUV and head home. Time to catch some shuteye before I leave in a few hours for a trip to god knows where.
Giuliana
The church is stifling this morning. I’ve been in prayer for less than an hour, and I’m already sweating. When I first arrived, I hated everything about being in a convent, having to pray every morning and evening. I grew up with a father who ran an organization where men went out to kill.
Religion was never part of our lives.
It was a lie told to sinners to break them down.
And if praying absolved you of your sins, then my father would end up in hell.
Arthur Calthorpe was the Devil.
Yet, when caught with his right-hand man, one of his best soldiers, I was locked up like Rapunzel. A princess hidden away because her father realized she was growing up.
