Serpentine Desires

The predator

"_La vendetta è un piatto che si serve freddo."_ Revenge is a dish best served cold. The saying has always amused me. Who said it had to be cold? Why wait when the blood can be fresh and the screams still echo in the air? I prefer it hot, scorching, leaving a trail of devastation behind.

The sound of my fingers drumming on the chair's armrest flowed with a steady rhythm. But I couldn't say the same about violence roaring in my bones.

I stretched in the chair, the leather creaking under me, and my eyes trailed lazily around the room. It was one of the private offices in the villa—mine, specifically. Three different faces of evil aka my fathers sat around the table with their faces set in different levels of annoyance, curiosity, and something that vaguely resembled amusement.

Twenty minutes.

And they were still waiting.

Waiting for me to speak, waiting for an explanation for Donatello's murder. Not just him—there were several others, all of them left in pieces, quite literally. I took my time, swirling the glass of whiskey in my hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light.

I could feel Padre's eyes burning into me and he had a poor control over his facial expressions. His irritation barely contained and his green eyes narrowed.

I wonder if he wanted to kill me.

The thought amused me as I took another sip.

"Che palle," Ralph spat, his Italian accent thick, the vein in his neck bulging. "Sei impazzito? You're killing our own men without a second thought! Donatello? And the others? Perché? Why, Judas? Dio, sei fuori di testa."

(Pain in the ass.)

(Are you crazy?)

(You're out of your mind.)

Not more than him though. Did I say he paints with blood?

I glanced at him with one brow raised, unimpressed. He was always like this—quick to anger, quick to disappointment. It was almost predictable.

"Calmati, Padre," I muttered, leaning back further in the chair as my arms stretched out lazily on either side. "They weren't 'our' men. They were rats. Stealing shipments, feeding intel to our rivals. What else was I supposed to do? Let them live?"

(Calm down, father.)

His fists hit the table that he wanted to knock against my face with a loud thud, making the glasses jump. "You could've told us! Per l'amor di Dio, we're a family. We make decisions together, not—"

(For the love of gods.)

Killian cut him off with a laugh, leaning back in his chair, cigar dangling between his fingers. "Oh, come on, Ralph. When has the 'little prince' here ever done what he's told? You think he's gonna start now? Kleiner Prinz, you always liked to stir the pot, didn't you?" His German slipped through with ease, his eyes twinkling with sarcasm.

And there was a reason I liked him more than my own blood related father. He was boring.

I smirked at him, appreciating the words. Out of the three of them, he was the most tolerable, even if he never took anything seriously. "Stirring the pot keeps things interesting, don't you think?" I glanced at my father, who was still fuming. "Besides, I'm not a child. I don't need permission to handle rats."

His face twisted a she threw a glare at the German. "This isn't about needing permission. Testa di cazzo, it's about control. About not acting like a fucking psychopath—"