Page 72 of Brutal Queen

I begin a slow walk around him and I take a moment to revel in the pain I’ve caused him. It’s nothing compared to the agonies he’s inflicted on me—but it’s a start. He dampens his anguish by biting his lip so hard I can see fat crimson drops of blood welling in the seam. I lean over him a little and make a show of inspecting my handiwork. His kneecaps are shattered but I appear to have missed any arteries that would have ended this display too soon.

He starts scrambling away, dragging himself on his arms, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. His effort is wasted since there’s no escape from me or my men, but I won’t chase after him, so I raise my weapon again and shoot each shoulder in rapid succession. This time I get a much more satisfying sound out of him. It’s half anguish and half incandescent rage.

“I didn’t think you had this in you,principessa,” he spits out. His voice cracks with every other word, but I ignore him. There’s nothing he can say that will hurt me any more than he already has, and I refuse to give credence to the psychotic ramblings of someone as depraved as he is.

I don’t say a word. I just holster my gun in my waistband and make a show of pausing to turn the knuckle duster over in my hand. Threading my fingers through it and wiggling them a little until the heavy metal sits comfortably between them. Max’s head is turned to the side where I immobilised him and his expression shifts to a level of darkness few have had the fortitude to survive. The demon beneath his skin bristles as he watches my hands.

“Tell me, wife, do you remember all the fun we had with that? How your delicate skin would blossom with colour from its attentions?” His voice drips with more malice than it has a right to, given the obvious pain he’s in.

I try to ignore our audience. For the most part, they’re aware of Max’s predilections, but that doesn’t make it any easier to have them hear his words. Several of them clench their fists, and I see them struggling not to intervene. Max hasn’t only hurt me. In one way or another, he’s injured every person here and they want blood.

So I decide, that’s what I’ll give them.

I strike so quickly Max is entirely unprepared and there’s little he can do to fight back. My boots straddle his hips and I reach down to pull his head off the floor. I can’t deny the sickening feeling that assaults me as my fingers slide through his hair. My stomach churns as my mind is assaulted by the memories of every time he’s ever touched me.

My vision clouds over in a red mist as I think of every person Max has hurt. It’s almost like those thoughts unlock a part of me that has been waiting for this moment. Activating me like a code word triggers a sleeper cell. My body is not my own. It’s an instrument of vengeance and it will be denied its purpose no longer.

I rain down an endless barrage of pain with my right fist. Driving it into his face over and over again. For me, for mysister, for my father, for Enzo, for every man and woman who stands with me.

I don’t stop when his nose shatters under the cold metal knuckle duster. I don’t slow down when I feel his jaw fracture. I don’t allow him time between punches to spit out the teeth I see rattling around his mouth as he shouts between strikes.

I only stop when his cries become whimpers and my breath becomes so laboured I can no longer hold him clear of the floor. Dropping him without warning, there’s a dull thud as his skull hits the concrete floor.

Max rolls his head to the side, coughing up more blood and teeth.

I stand alone, feeling like a centurion at the Colosseum, and for a moment I worry that my performance has lost my audience’s support. That I will look into their faces and see judgement. However, as I look around, I see nothing but unwavering loyalty. Their eyes are fixed on Max, eagerly anticipating the moment I put him out of his misery.

Crouching down beside him, I tilt my head and take him in. I find myself almost disappointed at how unaffected I am by the pain I’ve inflicted. I’m by no means a person with a truly pure moral compass, but the joy that floods my body when I watch him writhe beneath me in agony is indescribable.

“I wish I had some big speech prepared for this moment, Max. But I find myself entirely uninspired,” I muse down at him. “You’re a monster, one that needs to be put down.”

“Tell me, wife.” His words are punctuated with ragged, choking gasps, but that doesn’t deter him. “Does my voice still haunt your dreams? Do you remember the touch of my knife against your skin? The bite of the barbed wire in our playroom. Did Enzo tell you how I kept him in your little cage? Do you really think when they know what you truly are, that they’ll still bow to you? You’re nothing but my pathetic little whore.”

If he’s expecting his words to wound me, then he’s sorely mistaken. His ramblings only amuse me.

“I think you’ll find I’m their whore, not yours, Max,” I say pointing towards my Bianchi Bastards. “I was never yours. I just had to wait for an opportunity not just to escape you, but to destroy you. Patience is a virtue, motherfucker,” I say, tapping his cheek petulantly.

“You’ll always be mine,principessa. I will be burned into your soul until your last breath,” he rasps, losing his vice-like grip on his countenance, his words dripping with an emotion I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed in him. Yes, I can see the rage that has always lurked beneath the surface, the malevolence, the darkness. However, right now, it’s laced with desperation.

I remove and pocket the brass knuckles and stand back up. “How about you tell me—before I shuffle you off this mortal coil—what upsets you the most? The fact that it will be me that replaces you and destroys the De Luca legacy? Or the fact that you will never have me under your blades again? Never feel the exquisite high of watching me bleed for you?”

Max doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even flinch.

I lean forward, towering over him, beaten and broken on the floor, unable to squirm away from me and place my boot on his chest. Pulling my gun back out and aiming it between his eyes.

“Don’t you want to know why?” he croaks out.

“Why what?”

“Whyeverything?Why you?”

“You’re not as clever as you think you are. I’ve always known why. I’m the only one who can match you, Max—who can survive you. And that makes me the only one who can destroy you.”

Max’s eyes flare wide, though the whites are a mottled feathering of broken blood vessels.

“You may be my favourite, but you weren’t my first, were you… Your sister had that privilege. She was so much fun, but so weak,” Max says, a smile curving at the corners of his mouth as he adds, “I was so disappointed when her body gave out so soon, but I’d had plenty of time to practise by the time I got my hands on you,principessa.”

This is the first time his words have penetrated my thick skin and I can’t stop my trigger-finger from twitching. It takes more effort than I would like to force it away and straighten it against thebarrel of the gun.

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