Page 124 of Savage Saint
I do. They're intact. She's alive. The monster's leash is cut.
"It's done," I say, holding the device up to the light. Such a small thing to have caused so much suffering, positioned in the deadliest possible place. "She's free."
I look at the neat row of stitches on her neck now, partially hidden under the flesh-coloured dressing I'd applied with shaking hands. Twelve hours of surgery, of careful work, of praying to a God I don't believe in, that I wouldn't fuck this up. The flesh is still pink around the edges, healing but tender, a physical reminder of her liberation.
"Impossibile," Jerzy mutters, still clicking the useless device. "The signal is perfect. The battery is charged. You couldn't have—" Understanding dawns on his face like a horrible sunrise. "You removed it."
"Every last piece," I confirm, allowing myself a savage grin. "Cut it out like the cancer it was."
Jerzy's face goes purple with rage. He throws the device against the wall, where it shatters into plastic fragments, the wolf symbol breaking apart. "You fucking—"
He reaches for his desk drawer, movements too slow, too predictable. Twenty years of sitting behind a desk giving orders has made him soft, sluggish.
Pop!
Kasia's shot is perfect, hitting his hand just as his fingers brush the gun handle. The bullet tears through flesh and bone, sending a spray of blood across his precious mahogany desk. His gun clatters to the floor as he roars in pain, clutching his mangled hand to his chest.
"You fucking bitch!" he screams, blood seeping between his fingers. "I made you! Everything you are is because of me!"
He looks pathetic now, nothing like the monster of her nightmares. Just an old man bleeding on expensive carpet, his tailored suit splattered with his own blood.
I step forward, ready to end this, to put a bullet in his brain and be done with it. But Kasia's hand on my arm stops me, her touch gentle but firm.
"No," she says, her eyes never leaving Jerzy. "He dies on my terms. My way."
41
KASIA
Imarch Jerzy through his own corridors at gunpoint, the barrel pressed firmly against the base of his skull. His wounded hand leaves a trail of blood on the expensive carpet, droplets marking our path like breadcrumbs in a fucked-up fairy tale. The arrogance has drained from his posture, replaced by hunched shoulders and shuffling steps. This man, who loomed like a giant in my nightmares, now seems diminished, ordinary.
Just another pathetic old man bleeding on his own carpet.
"Move faster," I snap when he slows, giving him a rough shove that makes him stumble. "What's wrong? Feeling your age?"
Angelo follows a few paces behind, his own weapon ready. I can feel his eyes on me, watchful, protective, but not interfering. He understands this is my dance to finish. My demons to burn.
"Where are you taking me?" Jerzy asks, his voice missing the commanding tone I've heard my entire life. Now it's just the raspy plea of an ageing man who sees death approaching in high heels.
"You know exactly where we're going." I lean closer to his ear. "Think of it as a homecoming."
I direct him down the familiar hallway, past the portraits of ancestors who never knew what monster walked amongst their descendants. We reach the door I've dreaded since I was five years old—the training room. My personal hell.
"Inside," I order, jabbing the gun harder against his spine. "Time for one last lesson."
The wolf mural looms over us as we enter, its painted eyes following our movements as if it's watching its prey with interest. The massive canine head dominates the wall, fangs bared in eternal hunger. How many hours did I spend staring at those teeth while enduring Jerzy's "lessons"? How many times did I pray to become as heartless as that painted predator, just to survive one more day?
Turns out I didn't need to pray. I just needed patience.
I force Jerzy to his knees in the centre of the mat, the exact spot where I once bled during his training, where I begged for mercy and received educational beatings instead. The symbolism isn't lost on either of us. The student commands the teacher. The victim becomes the executioner.
Full fucking circle.
"Kasiu," he begins, his voice cracking like old leather. "Be reasonable. We can still fix this mess."
"Fix what?" I keep my gun steady, aimed at his forehead. "Your parenting? Your personality? Your face?"
"This misunderstanding. I can give you anything. Money, power, freedom. Name your price." His eyes dart between me and Angelo, calculating even now. Always calculating. "Think of what we could accomplish together. You and me, just like before."
