Page 125 of Savage Saint
"Just like before?" I laugh, and it's not a pleasant sound. "You mean when you had a chip in my brain and I was your personal murder doll? Those glory days?"
The pathetic display turns my stomach. This snivelling creature is nothing like the monster who once seemed invincible. The contrast is so stark it's almost disappointing.
"You can't kill me," he says, desperation making his voice crack. "I made you. I created you from nothing."
"You didn't make me," I tell him, my voice steady now, all traces of fear evaporated. "You tried to turn me into a weapon. A tool. Something less than human." I take a step closer, gun never wavering. "But I was never yours. Not really. Even when you had your chip in my brain, even when you could puppet my body, you never owned my soul. You may have broken me, but I put myself together."
"I should have killed you with your parents," Jerzy snarls, backing away and leaving bloody handprints on the mat. "Should have put a bullet in that tiny skull instead of wasting decades on you. Should have known their weak blood would poison you against me."
"But you didn't," I say simply. "Your ego wouldn't let you. You had to prove you could take your brother's daughter and turn her into your perfect little soldier. You had to show the world how clever you were." I click my tongue. "And that was your fatal mistake."
I move closer to him, gun unwavering, each step measured and deliberate. Angelo stays back, letting me confront my demon on my own terms, but close enough to intervene if the bastard tries anything. His finger rests on the trigger, ready.
"You took everything from me," I continue, my voice gaining strength with each word. "My family. My childhood. My innocence. My choices. My fucking name." I gesture with the gun. "But you can't take anything else. You don't control meanymore. I'm not your Red Widow. I'm not your weapon. I'm not your daughter."
"So what now?" Jerzy asks, trying for contempt, but the fear bleeds through, making his voice crack. Blood drips steadily from his ruined hand, pattering onto the floor like rain. "You kill me? Prove that you're exactly what I trained you to be? That I win even in death?"
"No," I say, and there's something almost like pity in my voice. "I'm not killing you because you trained me to. I'm not killing you because it's a mission or an order. I'm killing you because I choose to. Because the world is objectively better without you in it. Because every breath you take is stolen from someone more deserving."
The distinction matters. I can see it reflected in Angelo's eyes, in the way he watches me, not like I'm a weapon following programming, but like I'm a woman claiming her power. This isn't the Red Widow completing a mission. This is Kasia Kowalczyk, daughter of warriors, reclaiming her life one bullet at a time.
"You're nothing without me," Jerzy tries one last time, desperation making his voice break. "Just a broken little girl playing at being strong. They'll throw you away when they realise what you really are. When they see all the blood on your hands."
My laugh is cold. "Look at you. Bleeding. Afraid. Powerless." I step closer, close enough now that my gun is only inches from his chest. "Who's broken now, Uncle?"
The word 'uncle' lands like a slap. Jerzy flinches, and I realise I've never called him that before. It's a final severing, a recognition and rejection all at once. No more 'father.' No more lies.
Angelo moves to my side, his gun trained on Jerzy. United front. Partners in this beautiful violence.
"This is for my father," I say, voice steady as granite. "For my mother. For every child you've ever hurt. For every family you've destroyed. For every life you've stolen. For every night I spent staring at that fucking wolf."
Jerzy lunges suddenly, not for a weapon but for me, a last desperate attempt to regain control through brute force. His hands reach for my throat, bloodied fingers spread like claws, muscle memory of all the times he choked me into submission.
Angelo starts to move, but I'm faster. I've always been faster.
My shot echoes in the small room like thunder, precise and controlled. The bullet catches him centre mass, sending him stumbling backwards. A red stain blooms across his white shirt like a deadly flower.
"You..." he gasps, shock in his eyes as he falls to his knees. Blood bubbles from his lips, staining them crimson. "You were my greatest creation..."
"I'm not your anything," I interrupt, voice hard as the concrete walls that raised me. "I never was. I never will be."
I aim the second shot at his stomach, nice and low. "And this one is for the girl whose life you stole. This one is for me."
The bullet finds its mark, and Jerzy collapses, still breathing but dying slowly, blood pooling beneath him on the training mat where I once suffered. Where other children suffered. Where it all ends tonight.
I turn to Angelo, who has witnessed it all in silence. "Check the rest of the house," I instruct, my voice calm and detached, as if I've completed just another Tuesday. "If there's anyone else alive, take them outside. I don't want any more innocent blood on my hands than necessary."
Angelo studies my face for a moment, then nods. "You good?"
"I will be." I meet his gaze steadily. "Go. I'll finish here."
Once alone, I move with purpose to the supply closet, retrieving a canister of gasoline. The metal container feels heavy in my hands, sloshing with each step as I begin methodically dousing the house, room by room.
I start with my old bedroom, stark and functional, more cell than sanctuary. The gasoline splashes across the narrow bed where I spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, planning escapes that never materialised. I drench the desk where I studied languages, poisons, combat tactics—everything except the subjects normal children learn.
"Sweet dreams, little Kasia," I murmur to the empty room.
Next is Jerzy's study, the command centre of his evil empire. I pour the accelerant over his precious books, his meticulous files, his leather chair that still smells like his cologne and other children's fear. The gasoline soaks into the Persian rug where I once stood at attention, receiving assignments that would end with blood on my hands.
