Azalea Faye Larau - The sweetheart socialite with a fire underneath and an up and coming ballet dancer in London striving to stay afloat in an ocean of sharks, all the while dealing with heartbreak and loss.
Harlan Emeric Marchetti - The Italian Maf...
"As the blood of his victim stained his pristine shirt and his crimson eyes stared into mine, it all seemed so ironic. Every man he had killed till now, their blood was reflected in his eyes."
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I had been sitting out on the balcony for the past hour and a half now, watching the workers walk around in the backyard doing their duties, other than the dozens of armed men around the perimeter I assumed were security.
I sat up straight when I saw several men drag a man outside and throw him onto the freshly cut grass, watching him squirm and try to free himself.
Was he a captive too?
My eyes lit up slightly in curiosity when I saw Harlan walk up to him slowly, like a predator eyeing its prey with his hands in the pockets of his expensive grey suit.
He said something to the man in a low voice, his back to me and the man only seemed to stutter and whimper, shielding himself, although I could not hear what they were saying because they were at a distance.
I frowned, not understanding why the man was so scared and why he was literally at the devil's feet.
Who even was Harlan Marchetti?
My thought process was broken when a loud bang resonated across the area and I jolted up, my hand slapping over my mouth in horror when my eyes saw the scene in the garden.
So much red, and it wasn't Harlan's eyes.
The fresh, green grass was now stained with crimson as Harlan went down on his haunches after tucking the glinting metal in his slacks, inspecting something on the man before standing up and speaking to one of his men.
My head started to spin, my chest heavy and my heart thundering. Warning bells blared in my head as I stared at the now lifeless body of the man as his words came to haunt me once again. Words I once thought were just a sick joke.
"I have killed."
I got up from my seat on shaky legs and stumbled back, not believing what I just saw.
"And how many have you—eliminated—till now?" I asked, hoping, praying, this was his first kill when a deep and icy chuckle reverberated in the small booth that ran chills up my spine as my knee bounced furiously.
"I lost count a long, long time ago." He spoke and those few words were enough to send me off the rails as I shook my head, inwardly screaming.
"Good answer. I'd hate for another loss at the church. Especially after what happened to Father Pedro. He was a good man. That is, until he opened his trap and spouted nonsense about me."
I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out as my hands shook and I wrapped them around me as if that would protect me just when the devil himself turned to face me, like he knew I was watching.
