The Taste Of It

Chapter 2

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

She was right fucking there. 

I could've killed her. Made her miserable existence end with the simple slash of a knife. But, no. My father always said that if someone did something, like she did, their death isn't supposed to be simple. It was supposed to take hours. Days. And to be excruciatingly painful.

I cursed as I turned my head to check along the street, the cut she left was still bleeding and it hurt like hell.

Moments after I entered the street, a black Cadillac pulled up beside me. I quickly got in and ignored the stares from the driver. I flipped down the mirror and examined my cut. It was deep, not deep enough to kill me or to put me into a hospital. But enough to scar me.

Another fucking scar caused by Isabella fucking Russo.

I had at least two before I stopped counting. One on my upper thigh from a bullet barely skimming me and on one my wrist from her fingernail. A fucking fingernail. Who the fuck scars someone with a fingernail?

I knew my father would be pissed at me for, once again, letting my target slip from my grasp. He didn't care as long as the person was killed, but when it took seven motherfucking years to kill some chick, it pushed his limits.

Seven years I have tried again and again to kill her in any way possible, but always fallen short every single fucking time. My only haven, in a way, was that it was the same for her. She never managed to kill me and I never got to kill her.

But I would.

Somewhere, sometime she'd stop breathing.

Everyone would but I'd make sure she'd die at mine. I don't give to fucking shits if it took me another seven, seventeen, or even seventy years to kill her, but I'm willing to wait.

Wait until she gives her last final breath at my hand. And it'd be painful.

Not slow or painless. But I'd take days with her, make sure she'd feel every single thing. I would portray all the hell she put me through into her death.

Because no one fucking messed with the Volkov and lived to tell the tale.