Everything you need to know about Red.
Being a father to be, and in such a complicated moment of his professional life, Red has a lot to protect. He'll have to do the impossible in order to save the woman of his life from the murder accusations tha...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Glowing blood seeps through his burst lips and torn eyebrows. How I missed the coppery scent and cries from damnation. I swear I wanted it all behind me, but life has the irony in returning the joy lost in the fog of time. When it comes, embrace it.
I roll the sleeves of my shirt, wipe off the sweat on my forehead, then chug the spiced rum while looking at him all tied up in a chair—old classic ways never go rusty. Strained. No movements except for his head. Just as I love it. From here we can tangle all night long.
"Where is Cora? I won't ask again, boy, as much as I enjoy this little reunion." I smile while collecting the blade from the table filled with a lamp and blood-stained devices for torture.
Pliers, blades, wrenches, and a hammer, if you will. A gun is just a plus—no fun.
"I said I don't know! I don't know!" he yells, crying again and again, begging and hiccupping like a pig ready for the slaughter. "Just let me go, Mr. Kingston. I don't know anything. I don't know anything, I swear!"
"So you keep saying, boy, but the problem is... I don't believe you." I take a sharp-pointed blade and turn around.
He pants heavily, this Russian, the assistant of that scientist bitch who dared to betray me after everything I've done to build her an honorable career. I need to find her; she's the mole I've been searching for all this time.
She may have allies, so I ought to catch her myself and bleed her out for being the low-life bitch she is. And to top it all, she stole the formula of Project Z—my lifelong invested research that I worked and sacrificed so much to strive it.
As I lean over to the Russian, my little blade is sheathed, ready for fun. Like good ol' days when I played the confessor to those who dared to betray me. I wanted to be better; I swear I did. For my butterfly. But she took it all from me and now she must see what she's made me become.
I grab the Russian's chin, pulling his gnarly face up to catch a glimpse of his swollen, tearing eyes. He cries, and he bags.
"Please. Please..."
"Well, I guess you're no use to me." I shove the blade into his stomach.
He gasps, and I close my eyes to relish the moment, savoring the sound of his guts splatting. I twist the blade gently, and artfully, the feeling highly fulfilling. I love the sound of death, the scent of demise, the feel of the last breath escaping an enemy who bit the hand that fed them.
I think of the press buzzing outside my building since dawn, of the police appearing with an arrest warrant at my fucking doorstep, of the bastard who impregnated my wife, of Derek and his little bitch who dared to double-cross me, then at the woman who thinks she can outsmart me by playing me for a fool and get away with it.
No, butterfly. You must pay for your deeds. You and your bodyguard both!
"You have a call, boss," I hear Bastien from behind me as my victim chokes his own blood to death.
