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My eyes land on the blindfolded man inside as he lifts his chin from his blood and sweat-soaked shirt, moaning pitifully.
“Hello, Mr. Mouret.”
The man screams through the gag in his mouth, thrashing at the chains and ropes binding him to the metal chair bolted to the floor.
Good.Lethim try to get free. Let him taste hope and think even for a second that maybe—maybe—he’ll be spared. Let him get one tiny inkling of the horrors the girls he’s hurt felt, wondering if perhaps they’d be let go.
I step into the room and close the door behind me. Then I yank the filthy gag out of his mouth.
“PLEASE!” he blurts, abject fear lacing his tone.
It’s always like this with predators like him. They prey on the weak and helpless. They use money, power, alcohol, and drugs to reel in their victims and render them incapable of fighting back before they dig their fangs in.
Put those same fuckers face-to-face with someone who actuallycanfight back, and they crumble like the pathetic pieces of shit they are.
Every. Single. Time.
There was a time, back when I first started this dark crusade, that I worried what it said about myself. Before that first taste of vengeance, I was afraid that maybe this was a symptom of something far worse, far darker. That maybe I was insane, or psychotic, or a killer my whole life, and was just now realizing it.
But then I slit that first throat, the one belonging to the man who killed my sister with a nine-iron golf club to her head after drugging and raping her.
And after that, it became clear. I’m not psychotic. I don’t seek out murder and I don’t rejoice at ending a life.
But I will put animals like this piece of shit downall day every dayif it means stopping them from doing to someone else what they did to Claudia.
Reaching out, I yank off the blindfold.
I want him to see it all.
He blinks under the glare of the single overhead bulb, and when his bleary eyes focus on me, they go wide.
“Mr. Sartorre?!”
I don’t say a word as I reach into my jacket and pull out the twelve-inch blade of folded Japanese steel.
“Non!NON!” Robert screeches, squirming and yanking again his binds. “Please! Whatever you want, it’s yours,oui?! Money?! I have lots of?—”
"That.”
He goes quiet at my response. I use the tip of the knife to point at his finger.
“I don’t want your money, Mr. Mouret. I have plenty of my own, thanks. But I’ll take that ring.”
He blinks, panting as sweat drips down his face. His eyes drop to his hand, then yank back up to me.
“Yes!” he screams, nodding frantically. “Yes! Yes, of course! Please! It’s yours!”
I smile widely.
“That’sverykind of you, Mr. Mouret.”
The wetCHUNKsound fills the room. Robert blinks, staring at his hand for a full two seconds before his brain realizes that I’ve just lopped off his fucking finger.
Thenhe starts to scream, and bawl, and plead for mercy. I ignore him as I pluck the finger off the floor, slip the ring off, and drop the digit back to the ground.
“How many more are there, Mr. Mouret.”
He’s still sobbing and shrieking, staring at his bloody hand.
