Page 33 of A Sixpence For Your Shoe

I lean close to him, twisting my fingers into the collar of his shirt and tugging him close to my face.

“So, Dimitri, when you stole from me - what did you think would happen?” I ask calmly.

“Sir, Mr. Vece, please - my family, my kids, please - I have a family - I am a father just like you?—”

I laugh loudly, the sarcasm not hidden.

“Just like me? You are nothing like me. You are scum dragged from the sewers, and I’ve allowed you to walk my streets - but that generosity has now been revoked.”

I turn to Masaccio. “Won’t you hand me the pliers?” I ask, gesturing towards the table on my left, covered in polished silver items. Some of them sharp, some blunt, all equally terrifying to gaze upon when you know their purpose.

Masaccio passes me a pair of heavy pliers with his jaw clenched tightly. “Do you need us here? I’ve got things to do.” He asks. My sons don’t appear to enjoy this part of the job. It disappoints me they don’t have the same dark streak in them that is required to do well in this life. They shy away from this, taking part only when they have to.

I, on the other hand, revel in it. Torturing my enemies is the most incredible way to show them my power. My willingness to do whatever it takes to be at the top.

“You can go.” I answer without looking at either of them. My eyes are on Dimitri. His eyes are on the pliers as tears begin to drip from the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t cry. Don’t be sad. I won’t draw it out longer than necessary.” I reassure him.

I hear my sons leaving, pulling the cellar door closed behind them.

This room is sound proofed, designed for this purpose, the wine stacked along the wall, aging gracefully in the presence of this violence - it is a cover for the true reason I had this place built.

I might have wanted to spend a little more time with Dimitri because now that I am technically retired, I don’t get to do this as often as I used to - but in all honesty - the thing I want to be playing with the most is upstairs. A beautiful, dark-haired, green-eyed little raven. My new obsession.

I lift Dimitri from the floor and hook his hands into the spike jutting from the wall. I lock him in place using the pliers to twist the bolt. He’s already weak and not even trying to fight me, but he looks relieved that the pliers weren’t for him.

I set them back down on the table and pick up a large Japanese knife, custom made for the art of making sushi, but I found a much more creative use for it.

Whistling a tune my mother used to sing while she tried to settle me down for sleep, I peel away his skin, bit by bit, enjoying the energy he suddenly has and how loudly he’s screaming.

I drop another chunk of flesh into the bucket next to me and shake my hand to flick the blood off, dripping from my fingers onto the handle of the blade and making it slip a little in my grip.

“You are a bleeder aren’t you.” I chuckle, lifting his chin towards me so that I can see his face.

His eyes are rolling back, his body shivering with shock.

He’s lost a lot of blood, but I’ve only taken the skin off his chest and one of his arms so far.

Technically I could be impressed that he’s still conscious. Some men don’t stay awake past the first slice of skin.

“You’re doing well.” I muse, dropping his head, letting it fall against his chest.

Behind me, at the top of the stairs, the cellar door opens and one of my security guard’s steps inside.

“Sir, if you aren’t busy you might want to come and look at something.” He says nervously.

“What is it - I am busy.”

“It’s Misha?—”

“I’ll be right there.” I cut him off, dropping the knife and grabbing the shreds of Dimitri’s shirt to wipe my hands on as I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

At the mention of her name and the idea that she needs me - for anything at all - nothing else matters.

I follow the guard as he leads me around the side of the mansion. And that is where I find Misha, grinning, as she leans against the Mustang - which just happens to be crashed into the pillar in front of the stairs that lead up to my front door.

She looks amused and even at the sight of me, covered in blood, the cheeky little smile doesn’t fade from her face.

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