Page 29 of The Diávolos: Part One
I laugh inwardly. I can’t wait to face the fucker who thought he could play with what’s mine. He was probably imagining the countless ways he’d fuck her as she grinded on him, and I am going to eradicate his brain for even having those thoughts. He won’t know what hit him. There’s nothing scarier than facing a man brimming with hostility, a vortex of anger swirling inside him. Let’s see how he reacts to the presence of theDiávolos.
Once I arrive back at the club, I make my way inside, turning left immediately, and I walk through the door that says ‘Employees Only.’ It opens onto a stairwell that leads straight down to the basement, where we conduct our more unsavory business.
As I reach the bottom, I pull out my phone and input a series of codes to unlock the other set of doors. It clicks open and I enter the dark room. We only come down here when we need to interrogate someone or carry out a punishment. The entire basement is made of soundproof concrete. It can also be discreetly accessed from the outside by a side door.
Dion and Xander stand next to the man from the club, tied to the ceiling by his wrists. His feet barely touch the ground and he’s already beaten and bruised, saliva trickling down his chin. His hair is matted with sweat and blood. Bruises have begun to form all over his body. Blood slowly drips down his hands from the surface wounds inflicted.Drip, drip, drip. The metallic scent is ripe in the air, but it is about to increase tenfold.
The men give me a nod as I approach with nonchalance. I crack my knuckles and when I stand facing him, I slam my fist into his stomach, which causes him to stagger back and let out a loud ‘oomph.’ His head falls forward, chin to chest, as he tries to catch his breath. I grab him by the jaw and lift his head back up. He is visibly shaking and can’t seem to get any words out. The rush of adrenaline that floods into my system as a result is addictive.
I walk to the far side of the basement where a table lined with varioustoysstands against the wall, and I grab a meat tenderizer, running my fingers down the side of the handle as I walk back toward the guy from the club. His whole body stiffens when he sees what I’m carrying.
Just like an animal stalking its prey, following its quarry stealthily until it is time to pounce, I walk around the man tied to the ceiling.
“What’s your name?” I ask. I circle around him again. I can smell his fear.
He doesn’t reply and simply stares at me with tears rolling down his blood-stained face. I chuckle.Okay, time to play.I motion for Dion to throw a bucket of ice-cold water in his face. The man tenses up from the cold and starts sobbing hysterically.
“My name is Josh! It’s Josh,” he cries.
I smile wickedly. Some people prefer not to know their victim’s name, to not feel any guilt when they hurt them, but it’s the opposite for me. I like to address you by your name before I kill you.
I walk around Josh to grab a chair and I kick it toward him, hitting the back of his legs. His body slings forward and I use the knife to cut the rope that was holding his arms up and slam him down on the seat. Xander walks up to him and ties his ankles to the legs of the chair. At the same time, Dion fetches the table from the other end of the room and slides it in front of Josh.
“Put your hands flat on the table,” I order. He lets out a whimper but doesn’t make a move. My already thin patience dissipates entirely. “Put. Your. Fucking. Hands. On. The. Table.Now,” I spit.
Josh reluctantly obeys and closes his eyes. The smell of urine invades my nostrils and I spit in his face in disgust. The fucker pissed his pants. Dion and Xander let out a muffled laugh and stand behind me.
I lift the meat tenderizer and slam it down hard, crushing Josh’s right hand. A scream of agony comes out of his mouth. Blood splatters all over me and the table. I lift the tool and smash his hand again, severing it from his wrist. Amputating an appendage is nothing like you see in the movies. It's much more gruesome.No one fucks with me.
Josh’s head hangs limp and he’s slowly losing consciousness. Probably from blood loss. The limb is fucking spraying like a sprinkler. I pull out my gun from the back of my pants and aim it at his head.
I shoot.
“That’s for putting your hands on my girl, motherfucker.”She’s not your girl, Evan, the voice in my head reminds me. I ignore it.
Dion hands me a towel to wipe the blood off my face.
“Get him the fuck out of here,” I bark to the guys. I turn around and go back upstairs to my office so I can change out of these bloodied clothes.
I make my way to the top floor of the nightclub using the elevator hidden below the stairwell in the basement. The door slides shut after I input the code.
Sebastian and Gregory stand at the entrance of my office. I nod in their direction and they don’t even flinch at the sight of the blood on my clothing.Just another day in the life of a mobster.
I enter my office and head straight to the bathroom I had installed in my office for instances exactly like these.
I lean onto the sink and take a deep breath, looking at myself in the mirror. Some days I feel like a monster capable of destruction, a human with no moral code who simply exists to bring pain to others. I wonder again if life would’ve been any different had my parents still been alive. Would I have ended up this way? The memory of my dead family instantly creates guilt, images flashing before my eyes. I’m angry. Why couldn’t I have been old enough to fight for them, protect them? My little sister.Thea. She was only four years old, helpless, and naive. And I failed her. I let her slip away from me when my father asked me to protect her.
I grip the edge of the sink harder, attempting to calm the jerky movements of my arms from the aftershocks of the earthquake that is my life. My heart feels as if it has been ruptured, like the ground after seismic waves. Like a tsunami washing over coastlines, my lungs are flooded by the absurd amount of pain in my body. I can’t breathe. My past, present, and future, all of it is too much to bear. I’m on the edge of losing it. I’m either going to collapse or suffer an outburst. But I will myself to regain composure. A psychogenic blackout from anxiety, or intermittent explosive disorder? Take your fucking pick.
When I was a kid, the repercussions of witnessing the murder of my family were enough to trigger a potion of emotional responses. My uncle sent me to many psychiatrists, and they all said the same thing.Your nephew has childhood trauma that will develop into PTSD.They prescribed meds to help me cope, but my uncle refused, having other plans to help me.
I might look like a normal, functioning human on the outside, but on the inside, I’m a fucking monster waiting to be unleashed. With a low tolerance for frustration and inappropriate anger outbursts, I’m scared to let Angelica near me during one of my episodes, when I feel like I can’t control my actions. I would never want to hurt her.
When I’ve calmed down enough to rip off my clothes, I step under the scalding water and scrub the blood and dirt off my body until it hurts.
Once I’m done trying to shed my skin off like a snake, I dry myself with a towel, dropping it on the counter before going over to the walk-in closet to get dressed. I slip on grey jogging pants and a loose white t-shirt and sit on the edge of the bed in the bedroom adjoining my office. I let my body fall back onto the mattress. Feeling the effects of the day, I crash.
I hear the faint sound of glass breaking and footsteps getting closer and closer to my room. They sound frantic but quiet enough to go unnoticed. I hear mymamawhispering on the other side of the door, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I stir under the covers and sit up in my bed, clutching onto my Spider-man blanket.
