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For so long, Drake stood in his own way. He’d never felt so free once he gave himself to his wife. Nothing he could do would ever be enough for her, because, from this moment on, she would have all of him for the rest of their lives.
The beast that his wife and years as a law-abiding citizen had tamed was awake and roaring to go. Drake tensed and flexed his fingers inside the black leather gloves that fit like familiar skin and rolled his shoulders before cracking his neck. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in anxious anticipation. He still had two hours to wait.
Drake was a moving shadow, dressed from head to toe in black disposable clothing. Though he was no trained hitman, as a soldier, there was already blood on his hands at someone else’s command. This time, he would feel no guilt.
Work had become an obsession; days turned into weeks as he stalked his target, watching every move. Carlo Turelli was a fucking scumbag. The man picked up young girls off street corners and was never gentle. Those that were unlucky enough to enter his home exited shaking and crying with torn clothing and marks all over their bodies—if they exited at all.
While the authorities should’ve been contacted, all the neighbors seemed too afraid to report him. Instead of apprehending a criminal, the coroner would soon be picking up a mutilated corpse. He smiled at the thought of dispensing justice.
The masked man had broken the knob on the back door and changed the locks two days prior. He removed the still-shiny key from his pocket and simply unlocked the door. It was too easy as the door had no other deadbolt or chain. Such a thing invited trouble living in a rough city neighborhood.
There was no reason to stage the house to make it appear as a robbery. He wanted the police to take one look at the slovenly Turelli and know it was a hit.
Pulling a length of cord from his pocket, the masked man wound it around one hand, making a fist, and then wrapped it around the other. He’d chosen leather gloves solely for the grip and dexterity the natural fibers offered while not leaving fingerprints behind.
Turelli was in his den watching a homemade video. A barely legal girl was crying and begging for mercy. Drake froze in his tracks, as he knew that voice. He crept behind his target and had a view of the television.
A grainy homemade movie showed Alessandra on the bed, hogtied and fighting against her restraints. Turelli’s baritone voice was loud as he spoke close to the microphone.
“How many times have I warned you about behaving? I will gag and punish you if you continue to fight and scream, little cagna.”
The man spat in her face from beneath a blackened hood. He was menacing, rippling with muscles like a professional wrestler. His body now was quite different, leaving Drake to wonder why he’d let himself go.
Alessandra’s bare back was bloody. She continued to struggle against her bonds. Knowing this had happened to her was one thing. Seeing it was another.
“Little slut,” Turelli growled, unaware that Drake was right behind him.
Drake’s fist tightened around the cord and shook with fury like nothing he’d experienced. A minute later, Drake heard a pleading male voice off-camera and saw the big man press a gun against the young woman’s temple. She trembled and paled with fear. Prayers that went unanswered fell off her lips.
Turelli’s hand moved faster on his cock as he grunted and made sounds of pleasure. That was when the masked man made his move. He quickly lowered the cord over the seated man’s beefy neck, twisted it, and pulled with all his might.
The big man was caught off guard. His body jerked in the chair, and his cock twitched, spewing jets waywardly. His hands raised in protection too late. He clawed at Drake’s gloved hands. The leather was too slick for the other man to grab hold of, and Drake didn’t feel a thing.
He had one mission—execution.
There would be no failure tonight. Drake tightened his grip and used the other man’s seated position as leverage to pull tighter. It wasn’t long before the big man stopped struggling. He was unconscious, not dead, but he wouldn’t survive the night.
The masked man grew impatient for his target to regain consciousness, so he snapped a packet and waved it underneath the big man’s nose. He watched as his beady eyes opened groggily. They were reddened from ligature strangulation, and the man’s neck was bruised. That would be the least of his suffering that evening.
While far from an experienced rigger, Drake could still tie efficient knots. Turelli’s arms and legs were tied to the chair, and his wrists and ankles were in restraint devices. The man wasn’t gagged because Drake wanted answers and to hear the man’s anguish. But he planned to gag the man if he spewed filth.
Drake brandished a knife in front of Turelli’s face. “Svegliati, Carlo.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he croaked.
“I am here to dispatch justice for the women you’ve brutalized.”
“I did nothing to those whores. They begged for it.”
Drake plunged the knife into Turelli’s thigh, making sure to avoid the artery. He didn’t want the stuffed pig to bleed out too early. He squealed as Drake twisted it. The blood spread down the man’s hairy leg as he pulled the knife out.
He gestured to the TV. “That girl wasn’t asking for it!”
“She was a fucking slut that needed to be taught her place. I enjoyed breaking her,” he huffed and spat at Drake’s feet.
Drake repeated the same treatment to the other thigh and enjoyed listening to the distressed sounds of his victim. Sweat beaded on Carlo’s brow as he gripped the armrests.
Drake removed shears from a duffle bag. “Call her a slut one more fucking time, and I’ll cut your micro penis off, brutto porco.”
