Page 78 of Sinful Hearts
Mozart Rocko. He should’ve been tied down and killed a long time ago just for having that stupid fucking name. The same with his parents for choosing it.
If it hasn’t become clear, I’m a name judger.
Mozart’s eyes widen at the sight of us. He rocks from side to side, struggling to break free from the restraints. A rag is shoved in his mouth so he can’t scream.
“I already know this fucker will get on my nerves tonight,” Julian mutters as we drag him from the trunk.
I laugh when his head smacks into the taillight.
When Mozart’s resistance becomes too aggravating, I punch him in the face. He whimpers but calms his ass down. Mission accomplished.
The Russian unlocks the warehouse door and flips on the lights as we drag Mozart inside. I drop Mozart on the concrete as if he were a sleeping bag and I was a pissed-off kid whose parents had just dropped him off at camp.
The warehouse smells like mildew, chemicals, and gasoline. Random furniture is scattered throughout, and a fridge is in the corner.
A butcher’s hook hangs from the ceiling. As I get closer, I notice specks of blood on the chair beneath it and the ground.
Julian fists Mozart’s collar and drags him across the floor to a chair under the hook. He pushes Mozart into the chair as the Russian ties him to it using a rope.
“Hello, Mozart,” I greet when they’re finished.
Mozart whimpers against the rag and shakes his head to get his long hair away from his eyes.
Julian and the Russian stand behind me as I casually stroll toward Mozart and tug the rag from his mouth.
Just for a moment, I want to hear his screams.
Savor them.
It’s exactly what he does.
It’s rather disappointing though. My victims’ screams were once my favorite song, but that’s now been replaced with Liliya’s laugh.
I backhand Mozart in the face. “If you shut the fuck up, I’ll let you live.”
He slams his mouth shut.
“Where’s your phone?”
He motions toward his front pocket.
I grab it. “Passcode?”
“Sixty-nine, sixty-nine.”
The Russian chuckles behind me, and I motion him forward.
He does, and I hand him the phone.
“You do all the talking,” I instruct. “Tell him what we discussed earlier.” I clasp him on the back as if I were the coach and he was a Little Leaguer.
He eagerly nods.
I hit the contact for Dad and FaceTime him.
No one picks up.
I try again.
