Page 94 of Devil's Iris
Pathetic.
Sandro stands nearby, arms crossed, expression impassive as he watches me work. He has witnessed—and dealt out—plenty of torture himself over the years. This is just a normal day for him.
“I’m sorry!” Jake cries out, each syllable jagged, torn from what’s left of his voice. Maybe he is sorry now, but it’s too late. I don’t stop my work on his hand.
Once all his fingers are nothing but useless, mangled flesh, Imove to the scalpel. I carve a thin, clean line down his forearm—not deep, but just enough to hurt. Enough to make him realize that death isn’t coming quickly. No, I’m going to draw this out.
“You stole medicine meant for people who can’t afford to buy it the legal way,” I remind him of his crimes again. “You fed poison to addicts using meds that were supposed to save lives.”
“Please, just kill me already.” He starts crying—real, gut-wrenching sobs that shake his shoulders, snot and tears mixing with the blood coating his face.
“Now that’s the first request you’ve made that I’m happy to grant.” I set down the scalpel and pick up the hammer, testing its weight in my palm.
I lift it high and Jake begins struggling against his restraints with renewed desperation, even though I’m only giving him exactly what he just begged for.
Unfortunately for him, he’s not going anywhere.
To draw out his terror, I slowly lower the hammer and place it back on the table. Jake deflates with relief so intense that his bladder releases, the sharp smell of urine joining the metallic scent of blood on the concrete floor. My nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Coward,” Sandro comments caustically from behind me, and I chuckle as I take out my Kurth Mongoose, running my fingers along its cold frame before tightening my grip.
Jake stiffens again, realizing he’s nowhere near out of the woods yet.
The chamber pops open with a soft click, and he gulps. One by one the empty rounds drop into my palm, the metallic clinking almost musical in the oppressive silence. I pocket five, then slip the last one back in, the bullet cool and smooth against my fingers before it settles into place.
With a practiced hand, I spin the cylinder. The faint whir of metal mixes with the grating sound of chair legs scrapingagainst the floor as Jake starts struggling again. He can sense where this is going.
I raise the revolver, and he shakes his head frantically. “Just kidding.” I chuckle and holster my gun. “You’re not worth wasting ammunition on.”
Done playing games with him, I pick up the hammer again. This time, there’s no hesitation, no false mercy. Jake’s struggle increases to the point where the chair starts rocking, but it won’t tip. With a steady arm and a single, hard swing, the hammer hits his skull with a loud crack that echoes throughout the inn’s room.
Jake jerks, once, twice, then his body slumps forward, lifeless, blood rushing from his crushed head to pool beneath the chair.
I stand there for a moment, staring at what’s left of him, waiting for some sense of satisfaction or closure. But I feel… nothing.
“Not as satisfying as I thought it would be. Felt like squashing a cockroach,” I say as I turn towards Sandro, wiping my hands on the rag he offers before tossing it aside.
“Burn it all,” I instruct, though the order is hardly necessary. We’ve worked together for a decade—he knows not to leave any trace of what happened here tonight.
Sandro nods briskly. “Want me to put word out about what happened to this fool?”
“Yeah.” I’ve been playing respectable lawyer for so long that people seem to have forgotten who I really am, and how much bloodshed it took me to get here. “Take a picture. Spread it. Let them know what happens when they steal from Romero Lombardi.”
I adjust the lapels of my jacket, noticing the blood splatter on my clothes. “And make sure every box from here on out is double-sealed. Nobody touches shit without clearance.”
34
LENI
Several tabs are still open on the laptop when I finally push back from the kitchen counter, stretching muscles that have gone stiff from hours of research. I found it here yesterday with a sticky note stuck to the lid simply saying:use it for whatever you need it for.
No signature, but it’s obviously from Romero. The man has a way of providing things without making a big deal about it.
So, inspired—or maybe just restless—I've been diving deep into online courses, potential career paths, anything that might give me purpose beyond being Romero Lombardi's complicated wife. But so far, no luck. With a sigh, I shut the laptop, set Lady Heathcliff gently on the floor, and turn just as the low growl of Romero’s car pulling into the driveway reaches my ears.
And before even thinking it through, I leave the kitchen, my steps quick and eager.
If I thought our conversation at Mom’s place a few days ago would change the dynamics between us, I was spectacularly wrong. He made me say I belong to him, but then he went rightback to avoiding me like I’m carrying some deadly plague—and I’m done with that.
