LEROI
I only get a crick in my back when I’ve slept in the armchair, but I’m too mellowed out to open my eyes or bother to move.
A dry cough chokes through my parched throat. The air is still thick with the scent of weed, but someone must have been smoking something much stronger because I never fall asleep during poker nights.
I didn’t mean to drink so much whiskey, but fuck it, I deserved to let loose. After weeks of preparation, the Capello job went off with only one small hitch, and she hasn’t once left her bedroom. I managed to get some leads on the location of her brother over the course of the evening too.
My mind drifts to that conversation with Anton. He didn’t just know about Seraphine. He’s one of the bastards responsible for keeping her in that basement. Did he know about the collar? There’s no way he wouldn’t.
Anton trained me before I was about Seraphine’s age, but he sure as hell didn’t keep me like one of his dogs. The man was the only father figure I had at a time when I needed guidance. My head throbs at the thought of him corrupting a child.
It’s excruciating.
I can’t even ask him about Seraphine without anyone knowing I killed the Capellos. My mind is so twisted in a loop that I can’t even imagine him mistreating Seraphine.
Rhythmic ticking from somewhere high on the wall interrupts my relaxed state. I try to meditate so it can fade into the background, but the sound becomes insistent.
Shit. I envy the fuckers who can sleep through alarms and all kinds of shit, yet the sound of a clock is grating on my nerves.
If only I cared enough to reach for my gun…
Tick, tick, tick.
TICK, TICK, TICK.
The clock won’t shut the fuck up, and I’m starting to take this personally. My fingers twitch toward the pistol digging into my waistband, the real source of my back pain.
I crack open an eye, only for the sun to sear my retinas with bright light.
Damn it.
Hours have passed, judging by the painful glare, and I’m still half drunk. When I open my eyes again, it’s to peek through my lashes. I can’t sleep all morning. I have responsibilities. Someone needs to check on the girl, give her breakfast, coax her out of the room. She’s spent so much time locked up in a basement that she doesn’t know how to be free. I also need Miko to follow those leads I gathered from the poker crew.
I crack my eyes open a few extra millimeters. The light stings, but I’m ready for the burn. Wake up, you lazy fucker. You have responsibilities. You can’t pick up a stray and leave her to her own devices.
My eyes snap open, and all I see is blood.
Blood coats the floors, the walls, the sofas. Blood runs down the fronts of the poker crew’s shirts. It’s everywhere.
Alarm explodes through my chest, propelling me out of the armchair.
Fuck.
I pull out my pistol.
Someone just killed six men in my living room while I was too drunk and stoned to notice. Adrenaline surges, sharpening my senses. My heart pounds hard and fast, sending sensation to every nerve ending. I glance around, searching for signs of movement.
Everyone is dead, from Larry the delivery driver to Nathan, who mowed the Capellos’ lawn.
Shit.
Why did the killer leave me alive? I need to investigate. Need to find out who the hell infiltrated my apartment. Need to know if this was an act of revenge for killing Capello or something else.
My heart skips a beat. Did they take the girl?
Cold sweat breaks out across my brow and trickles down my back. I don’t give a shit about the poker crew. They were temporary allies I’d gathered to complete the Capello job, but I do give a shit about Seraphine. I charge through the living room, my feet sticking in the congealed blood, and burst through her bedroom door.
The bed is empty, but the room is coated in blood. Billy Blue from Capello Casino sits dead on the floor, his eyes wide open, his mouth slack.
What the hell happened?
There’s no time to ask why he was in her room. Not when whoever else might have tortured her in that basement could have taken her back to another hellhole. Not when Anton might have put two and two together and worked out the location of his missing Lolita assassin.
I’m out of the door in an instant, my mind racing for clues.
“Seraphine,” I roar.
There’s no answer.
She’s either dead or suffering a punishment that will make her beg for oblivion. It was supposed to be different with Seraphine. What was the point of all that training if I couldn’t protect one girl?
My feet skid to a halt. What about the cameras? I could watch the footage, see who snuck in to take the girl, track their registrations, and—
I need Miko to pull up the footage.
Glancing from side to side, I skim the blood-covered remnants of poker night. Beer bottles, open pizza boxes, plastic chips, eight dead men with their throats slit, but no sign of my fucking phone.
Did I leave it in the kitchen?
My footsteps are loud and sticky across the tacky floor. I fling the door open to find a small blonde figure standing at the counter between the sink and the stove.
“S-Seraphine?” I rasp.
She glances over her shoulder and gazes up at me through huge, blue eyes. Her face would be the picture of innocence if it wasn’t smattered with blood.
The relief that sweeps through my system is so intense that my knees almost buckle.
She’s alive.
I couldn’t bear the thought of someone stealing this innocent girl away to yet another basement, especially after promising her she would be safe. Despite being happy to see her, something about this picture doesn’t look right.
Seraphine turns back to the counter, her right arm making slashing motions with a knife. I glance around, finding a plate with two slices of buttered bread and frown.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
When she doesn’t answer, I cross the kitchen, following the path of her delicate, red footprints. My pulse continues to pound. Did she see what happened to the poker crew? I imagine her curled up in a tiny ball beneath the bed, hiding from the killers until it was safe.
Fucking hell.
The poor kid.
She continues slicing something on the chopping board, using the precision of a sushi chef. I glance over her shoulder to see what she’s cutting, and my heart stops.
It’s a severed penis.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I rasp.
She looks up at me with those huge blue eyes. Blue eyes that radiate something more sinister than having simply borne witness to the murders of my poker buddies. I grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife and squeeze.
“Seraphine,” I hiss. “Where did you get that cock?”
Her face hardens, but she doesn’t speak. The only time she seems to answer my questions is when I ask about her brother… or her collar and chip.
“If you want me to help you find Gabriel, you will answer my question,” I snarl. “What the fuck happened?”
“That man touched me, so I cut off his dick,” she says, her voice flat.
“Billy Blue?”
“The one in my room.”
Guilt squeezes my chest, tightening my throat. I should have carried her out of the apartment and dumped her with Miko when she refused to leave. Now, I’ve gotten her traumatized by someone else.
“What happened next?” I ask.
“I cut him.” She raises a boning knife into the space between our bodies. “With this.”
Shit.
I step back.
“And the others?” I rasp.
“I had to make sure they wouldn’t do the same.”
Seraphine has a way of distorting reality, so all you see when looking at her is a sweet little angel. It doesn’t matter that Anton trained her as a Lolita assassin–my brain won’t allow myself to believe she’s capable of mass murder. Still, when she drops her gaze to my hand encasing her wrist, I release my grip.
“You killed them all?” I wheeze.
She turns back to the chopping board and continues slicing through Billy Blue’s cock. My gaze darts to the two slices of bread, and realization hits me in the gut.
“You’re making a sandwich?” I ask, incredulous.
She nods.
My stomach churns. “Why?”
“They need to know I’m not afraid.”
“The voices in your head?” I whisper, my pulse quickening.
What the fuck did I bring to my home? Why the hell did I think the situation with Seraphine would be anything like with Miko? When I met the boy, he was bruised but fully clothed and unshackled.
Sure, there was a gleam in his eye when I strangled his stepfather, but that was satisfaction wrought from years of being powerless against a bully. I brought him into my spare room, but the worst thing he did was leave trash on the floor.
Did I bring home a serial killer or did she go too far with her self-defense?
As Seraphine continues to slice Billy Blue’s penis into wafer-thin pieces, my patience cracks. I can handle a room full of dead poker players, or even a castrated creep, but I can’t stand by and watch a girl make a sandwich out of a cock.
“Stop that.” I snatch the knife out of her hands and toss it across the counter.
Without skipping a beat, she reaches for the sliced meat.
I yank the chopping board off the counter and throw it and the severed penis across the room.
Seraphine whirls around, her nostrils flaring.
“You will not eat that sandwich,” I snarl.
“There’s nothing worthwhile in the fridge,” she spits back.
I clench my fists. “There’s wings and pizza left over. Oh wait, you drenched that in blood.”
Her lips tighten into a thin, and she glares up at me like a feral kitten, looking ready to make me her new target. I bare my teeth, daring her to pounce.
We stand so close that I can feel the rapid thrum of her heart. She wants to fight, I can tell, and I’m ready for her next move. Before I can think of what to say next, her shoulders sag.
“I’m sorry for ruining your leftovers,” she says, sounding genuinely contrite.
My face drops.
What?
“Anything else you’d like to apologize for?” I ask, my arm sweeping toward the trail of blood leading out toward the murdered men.
“If this is about the mess, I can clean it up,” she says.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Really.”
It’s not even a question. There’s no way a five-foot nothing girl with a face like an angel can move eight male bodies out of the building and dispose of them without breaking her back or getting caught.
She gives me a sharp nod, her features hard with determination. “Really.”
Deluded as well as dangerous.
I should put a bullet through her pretty head before she causes any more mayhem, but I won’t.
“Alright then, Little Miss Murderer, get to work.”
With my eyes still fixed on Seraphine’s, I step backward to where I left my phone by the sink. I’ll be damned if I leave the cleaning up to this pretty little psycho.
It’s time to call my own men and teach her a lesson about not biting off more than she can chew.
