The younger one visibly shrinks back. Even the leader looks like he’s swallowed glass.
“We will not betray the Bratva,” the older one says, voice steady despite the knife sticking from his hand. “We will die before we talk.”
I walk over to the table of weapons and quietly survey my options.
“Why were you at Margot Peterson’s house?” Roman asks the younger one.
“I won’t tell you shit,” he mutters, but it’s empty.
Roman drives a knife into his hand.
Unlike his partner, he doesn’t stay calm. He cries.
Pathetic.
“What kind of man breaks down at a little pain?” I mutter under my breath.
“Answer the question,” Roman demands.
“Why do you care about some fat bitch?” the younger one hisses.
My blood turns to fire.
Get it together. Stay in control.
“It would do you well to watch your mouth,” I grind out.
“You couldn’t keep your slut at home. She would have been so good.”
Red. My vision reddens blindingly.
I move slowly. Calmly. I pick up a tin of gasoline and slide a matchbox into my pocket.
He’s still talking. He doesn’t know I’ve already decided he’s going to die violently.
“Her screams made me hard. Her wrists were soft. I was waiting for my turn when you interrupted.”
He stops talking when he sees me approaching.
Fear registers in his eyes. Finally.
He realizes I’m not like Roman. I don’t do this because I have to. It’s not my job. I’m here because I want to. Because he hurt my Margot.
I silently start pouring the gasoline over his head. Chest. Groin.
He starts screaming before the match is even lit.
Begging.
I don’t say a word as I let it soak.
Then I answer his earlier question.
“She’s my everything.”
I light the match, and flick it on him.
He ignites.
