The woman's hand, decorated with rings, was squeezing the sides of her throat; the gun stuffed in the blondes mouth. Breathy whimpers slipping past her lips, and mascara dripping down her puffy, red cheeks.
Renata tittered, her haughty tugging the...
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"𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 myself." A thick, feminine French accent burned through the silence. A click was heard too with her gun being turned off safety, as well as her heels clanking against the concrete floor and the pairs of boots that walked behind her.
Her hair, freshly braided at the length of her lower back, jewels and silver charms clasping around some and the tips being curled. Her long, black, leather jacket hid her toned figure, a black turtleneck hiding bruises that decorated her neck, and her black slacks hid the toned, muscular legs she worked hard for at the gym, though her black pumps displayed her pedicure she had gotten days prior.
Her makeup, very subtle, her eyelashes curled and coated in mascara, and the wing that showed off her upturned eyes, the secrets she held masked behind her eyes, the deep longing for something not only in her deep, alluring eyes, but her chest as well — the very thing that people around her were convinced it stopped pumping, stopped working with each merciless murder.
Renata loved pampering herself up a bit, though her finger nails were always kept short and clean, only ever being painted once in a while, they were her most used attribute. Whether it was for pulling the trigger or pleasuring the women that would throw themselves at her.
Blood boiling at the audacity of men in this day and age, their incompetence to get such simple task done and not disturb her when with family, but business called. Ordering men around was her second favourite thing, before murdering those who decided to mess with her business.
Her hand clasped around the leather gloves in her pocket, yanking them out and her fingers ripping through the empty hole that were designed for her skilful hands. She always hated people staring at her hands, the scars that decorated them were the making of people scratching her, begging for her to release their necks from her grasp and beg for another try at life. She loved them for that reason, but it was not an attractive thing and people who cant mind their business, asked too many questions
The satisfying monologue of someone begging her for another chance at life, praying that she let them go back to their loved ones and try to figure another way of paying her back or try working for her, giving her a meaningless oath that they pledge themselves to follow and support her. Renata Soleil Abbott was no fool. She hoped to never be taken as one. Those people undermined her, and what she's capable of.
They say behind every strong man, there is an even stronger woman. In her case, that is not true. She doesn't need a man, she doesn't need someone to help her finish a job off. What she needs is for her men to grow some braincells and follow the orders they're given, no matter what rank they are, or how close they are, these men and women need to know that business is business, and when it is messed with, mercy won't be knocking on their door.
"Je veux la mort de l'idiot. I ask for so little." She announced, grabbing the gun from her waistband and turning safety off, waiting by the door. The man that was once behind her, opened it, his hand shaking slightly from fear as he could feel his boss' anger radiating off her. (translation: I want the death of the idiot.)
