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Scrubbing a gloved hand through his dirty blond, medium-length hair, Boyd takes a step back as I send him another glare. He clears his throat, pulling at the smock draped around his neck, and blows out a long breath. I can barely hear him over the buzz of the tool in my hands.
The brown skin on this man’s ankle splits, a canyon sinking open with each turn of the blade, and soon skin breaks way to muscle and bone; if he hadn’t already been drained of his blood, I know my living room would be a fucking disaster.
Luckily, the Montaltos had already taken care of that part; I can only imagine how badly he tried to fuck over the leading organized crime family in town to deserve such a fate, but it’s not my job to care. To feel sympathy.
I don’t think I could, even if they paid me to.
I’m here as a finisher, taking over for Kal, the usual fixer who’s been gallivanting around the Carolinas down south recently. It helps that the Montaltos pay an exorbitant amount of money for corpse disposal, but honestly, I’d probably do it for free.
For fun.
The skeleton collection in my bedroom closet is proof of that.
Boyd scratches behind his ear, looking impatient. Like always. How we’ve remained friends in the years since meeting as freshmen in college is beyond me; my tolerance for bullshit is unnaturally low, and his propensity for being an arrogant, pushy asshole is unparalleled.
But he’s about the only one who can stomach me for long periods of time, so I keep his ass around, despite how he dethroned me at Ivers International, my family’s own cybersecurity company.
Water under the bridge. Kind of.
The man’s foot falls to the hardwood floor, a dull thud barely audible above the saw motor. I flip the switch, turning it off while I move to the other foot, and Boyd shoves his tattooed hands—visible through the clear gloves—in his pockets. When I’ve severed the opposite limb, he bends and scoops them into a black plastic bag along with the man’s previously removed hands.
Evidence. The Montaltos like proof, especially considering I’m not actually one of them.
Hauling the body up under the armpits, surprised by its density despite the complete lack of blood and the organs sitting on my dining table, I move toward the heated metal tub at the other end of the room. Boyd walks out for this part, never willing to stick around until the end.
Lucky for me, my conscience is long gone. Sold with my soul, lost and never to be found again.
Pushing the corpse up and over the edge of the tub, I watch as it bobs in the water and lye mixture, sinking and returning to the surface. Pushing his head beneath the water with a gloved arm, I wait; bubbles pop up against the liquid, and I shove him deeper, wanting to speed up the process.
As the bubbles slow, I feel his body sag with the weight of taking on water, like a capsized boat in the middle of the ocean.
It’ll be a few hours before he’s completely dissolved, and even then, I’ll still have to dispose of the coffee-colored milkshake of flesh and muscle. Not to mention clean the bones and add them to the others.
But I won’t be back until the early hours of the morning, since I agreed to go to this fundraising gala tonight; my parents think it’ll be a good chance for me to get out of the house and show support for the charity they’ve adopted this year.
No part of me wants to go and leave Murphy’s ghost alone to roam our mansion, but I also don’t want to be left there by myself. At least, when everyone else is home, he has extra targets.
Doesn’t necessarily concentrate all his afterlife energy into taunting his murderer.
Boyd comes back in, phone pressed to his ear, talking in hushed tones.
I don’t bother trying to hear what he’s saying.
Turning my back to him, I begin stripping my protective gear off, revealing the crisp, black suit my younger sister, Fiona, insisted I wear tonight. “You ready to go?”
He pulls the phone away, tapping at the screen before slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Just gonna leave the body out in the open?”
“Is he out in the open? I think, if someone walked by for whatever reason and peeked into the windows, you’d just see a tub filled with a questionable liquid.”
“And a myriad of power tools. In Kieran Ivers’ house.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Totally normal circumstances.”
Shrugging, I shuck off my gloves and toss them to the floor, rounding the tub to head for the front door. “Anyone that wants to come poking around is not gonna live to tell the tale.” Yanking on my Armani winter coat, I smooth down the collar, pulling the door open to brace against the chilly March air.
“What a totally normal thing for someone to say,” Boyd mutters under his breath, taking off his own equipment and slinging his jacket over his shoulder.
My fingers brush against the cold metal of the locket I picked up at the King’s Trace Cemetery, my mind flashing to the moans of the girl who’s periodically graced my dreams ever since. I’ve been wearing the gold, heart-shaped pendant since she disappeared without it, strangely unable to part with it.
And she’s partially responsible for me going tonight; something tells me Elia Montalto’s sister-in-law might make an appearance, considering the venue is owned by thecapohimself.
