SCORPIONE | BOOK TWO.

Twenty Three

TRIGGER WARNING: DESCRIPTIVE VIOLENCE AND MENTION OF R*PE, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK !!

That's Amore by Dean Martin filled my ears through my earphones. The air nipped against my hollow cheeks, whipped through my hair. I felt the gentle caress of the devil run down my spine as I fixed my gaze onto the mansion in front of me.

My coat fluttered behind me, and I held my gun in my right hand, and in my left was a pretty holographic knife, engraved with my initials.

Winter midnights were always my favorite. My city was still and snow fell, it was peaceful. But only as peaceful as it can get with the devil standing at your doorstep.

I put the knife under my arm and took the barrel of the silencer from my pocket, my gloved hand turning and turning it into my gun. It snapped gently into place and I rested it against my side again, took the knife and joined it with the rest on my thigh.

In the house in front of me, lay my woman.

I imagine her on a king sized bed, staring at the ceiling. Unable to sleep without my love oozing from my pores and soaking up into hers. Unable to sleep because I haven't fucked her in three days, unable to sleep without me.

Possibly unable to breathe without me, but that was merely my insanity speaking.

My breath dripped from my lips in misted clouds as I receated a string of words in Latin. I couldn't tell you what I was saying, I was probably asking god to save my soul. Not that I cared, but if Sorella was going to heaven, I'd spread hellfire over the place to drag her back to hell with me.

My heavy boots crunched on the fallen snow, Frank Sinatra's love song filled my ears now, and I smiled to myself at the perfect irony.

Three guards were posted at the two wide doors. They were asleep, and I saw an empty bottle of whiskey by their feet and scoffed softly. I realized these men wouldn't be a threat to me; they were out like a light.

Even so, my knife sunk into their temples with desirable ease and they didn't make a sound.

I imagined my woman lay on sheer white bedding, her dark, brown hair dripping over the whiteness like chocolate over my fingers. I counted the seconds until I'd feel her soft hair wrapped around my fist and lay on my black silk bed.

The front door creaked open.

I was never a man to kill an animal.

I had never even thought about it, wanted to, etc.

But as the rabid fucking Rottweiler rose to it's four feet and flashed it's teeth at me, I knew it'd either be me or him.

I lowered down to my hunches in the foyer of the dark home, the smell of lingering dinner and cigars nipped at my nose, and I exhaled a deep, calling breath. The Rottie growled warningly, and I mentioned strict eye contact with it as I lowered to it's level.