Twisted Obsession (Editing)

64 - Carnage

Lorenzo Vincelli

The gates of the Allister estate weren't just open—they were obliterated. One hung sideways like a snapped bone, the other scattered across the driveway in twisted shards of iron and rust. Smoke rolled out from the east wing in thick black tendrils, curling into the night air like the fingers of the dead clawing their way to heaven.

The G-Wagon sliced through the carnage with regal indifference. Blood smeared across the tires, chunks of meat and broken glass crunching beneath us like gravel. Košarac's men had done exactly what I paid them to do. This wasn't just a war. It was a fucking a purge.

I leaned forward, watching the estate come into view through the windshield, and something cold and divine settled over me. I'd dreamed of this night for months. Planned it down to the goddamn minute. I knew how the blood would spray. I knew which walls would be stained first. I knew who would try to run and who would die begging. Every second of it had lived in my head like a symphony waiting to be conducted.

The air stank of copper, sweat, and smoke—the scent of triumph.

Bodies littered the driveway like discarded offerings. Some were riddled with bullets, arms twisted at unnatural angles. Others had been gutted, chests flayed open with ribs peeking out like ivory grins. One man was slumped against the marble fountain, throat slit so deep I could see the sinew in his neck pulling apart like threadbare rope. A Picasso of pain. I almost smiled.

Octavio was out first, cold and efficient, sweeping his rifle left to right like he was on autopilot. He didn't need instructions. He knew the mission. Santiago and Antonio followed, cutting through the chaos like blades, each step erasing the Allister name from the earth.

Luciana moved next—and fuck, watching her in her element was like watching poetry slit someone's throat. Her stride didn't falter, even as she stepped over a man bleeding out on the threshold. His hand reached up weakly, maybe in surrender, maybe in desperation. She didn't care. She didn't blink. One shot. Silenced. The bullet threaded through his eye socket like a needle through silk. She didn't even stop walking. That was the woman I trusted with my life—and my war.

I followed last.

The front doors hung open, one barely attached by a single hinge. The moment I stepped through them, the world blurred into a symphony of agony and beauty. The estate moaned like it was alive—screams ricocheted off marble walls, drowned only by the soft, sinister rhythm of silenced gunfire.

I felt alive.

The rug in the foyer had soaked so deep in blood it squelched under my boots. Ornate wallpaper was painted in arterial spray. A severed hand clung to a pistol, fingers still twitching. I stepped over it, admiring the artwork. I'd waited for this—for the cleansing, the fire, the blood. It wasn't just revenge. It was an ascension. And I was crowning myself with every shot fired.

Octavio's voice rang out down the hallway—firm, unshaken. Somewhere above us, glass shattered, followed by a crash and a choked scream. Antonio's laughter echoed behind it—dark, unhinged. I felt Santiago brush past me, reloading with smooth precision, humming under his breath like this was a stroll through a goddamn garden.

Luciana was a shadow in motion—swift, calculating, merciless. She rounded a corner just as a guard tried to ambush from a side door. Her Glock snapped up—one, two, three shots. Center mass. Head. Silence. The man crumpled in place, blood fanning out across the wall like ink. She didn't even look back.

I chuckled. Quiet. Controlled. This wasn't chaos. This was balance.

Another guard stumbled from the library, coughing blood, dragging a shotgun. Santiago shoved the barrel aside and drove a blade under his ribs, twisting until the man convulsed. A gurgle. A thud. Silence.