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It’s a rhetorical question, one I don’t want an answer to, but I ask him anyway.
“Marshall Benton. Thirty-four. Two kids and a pretty little thing for a wife.”
Benton starts frantically shaking his head as I rattle off the information I’ve dug up on him and his life since that night in the alley. I walk toward where he’s sitting on the basement floor, blood staining the concrete from Marty—the Amato man I finally killed just the other night. He suffered about as long as I typically let them, and he was no longer fun to torture. He was too catatonic. Too dismembered.
Too far gone to be a good plaything.
I undo my cuff links and roll the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows as I keep my eyes trained on the man cowering in the corner. I’ve kept one of my soldiers on him since I brought him in earlier, and I’m impressed with just how well he’s kept the fucker in line.
Benton moans and groans, thrashing around as best as he can, but I’ve got him chained to one of the structural elements in the floor. His wrists are bound behind his back with zip ties, and I can only hope they’re digging into his flesh. Maybe that’s why he can’t sit still.
Fucker can’t handle even an ounce of the pain I’m going to inflict on him.
“Oh, I forgot,” I lie. “You’ve got a rag in your mouth. Would you like me to take it out? You got something to say?” I ask with a chuckle.
He nods, his eyes growing wider as I take another step forward.
I’d actually love to hear what this piece of trash has to say. Any excuse for me to make this an even slower death is good enough reason to allow him to talk.
I rip the fabric from his mouth and toss it to the side. He immediately starts rambling on about his family, how I can’t hurt them, how they aren’t part of this.
He doesn’t need to know I won’t make good on those promises—that I won’t touch his family. He just assumes I will because it’s second nature for men like him.
These menwouldhurt women. They’d stop at nothing to hurt or kill everyone I love before finally killing me. So they don’t know I won’t do the same.
I’m a better fucking man than they’ll ever be—even when I’m leaving them gasping for their last breaths.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Benton,” I grit out. “I can and I will. I will rip your wife limb from fucking limb—but only after I fuck her brains out. Guarantee I’ll fuck that pussy better than you ever could with that shriveled-up thing you call a cock.”
Benton is naked, too.
It’s just one of the things I like to do.
Strip them of their dignity. Strip them of their manhood. Strip them of their lives.
It’s incredible how much weaker a man is when he’s left with nothing to hide the monster he is.
“Don’t fucking touch them. You’ll be fucking sorry. I know peop—”
With one swift movement, I pistol-whip him, and his head flings to the side like he’s a rag doll. I laugh but try to regain my composure as blood pours from his nose and down his temple from the impact. A bruise already starts to form, and a perfect welt the shape of an egg rises as he cries out.
“Fuck! Please!”
“Mendicare è per i deboli!Begging is for the weak,” I spit out before kneeing him in the face. “Do you make a habit of putting those filthy, greedy fucking hands on women? On stealing from them? Or worse? Does your wife know you don’t just take their money but you also rape them in those alleys? I bet she wouldn’t like that, would she? I wonder how many other children you’ve got out there.”
“Please. I mean, no. Come on. I don’t rape them!” he screams and starts to cry.
Then I notice a stream of piss filling the cracks in the concrete.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding. You put your hands on my woman, and then you piss on my floor?”
I let out a chuckle because I’ve scared this man enough that he has literally pissed himself. I wasn’t going to take it to this point so soon, but now he’s really pissed me the fuck off. I grab the pliers from a drawer in my workbench and practically skip over to the fucker. Damn, I love working with my hands.
The moment his eyes lock on the tool in my hands, he starts back up with the pleading again. I should’ve just kept the damn gag in.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again!” he screams.
“The thing is,” I start, “I really don’t believe you.”
