Page 48 of Isle of Beauty

He wiggles in his chains then looks me up and down, fixating a second too long on my cleavage, a mix of disdain and desire in his blue eyes. Fire burns a fast path in my body, driving me to kill whoever threatened my people, but this is a lesson for Pierce and I need to get information from this man.

I don’t dignify him with an answer and go to the closet on the right side of the room, picking my favourite tools. Pliers, knives, including a butter knife. They never see that one coming; it hurts like a bitch when you try to saw fingers with it. The sound of metal is loud in the room, silence heavy and weighed around us. The white walls reverberate the harsh light overhead, everything designed to be a sensory overload.

I discard my jacket, the air of the room cooling my skin, then turn to the man and set to work.

I once tied a man who killed some of ours to a pole, standing, hands up, for days. I’d come to feed him at irregular intervals so he never knew when he’d eat. That’s not even the worst. I put on “baby shark” music on repeat, bright lights on so he’d get no rest. I’m really fucked up to think that’s really funny.

I don’t really have time for that today so I’ll have to go for the old fashion finger remover tactic. Not really subtle but effective.

Once Mr. Berg’s hands are secured to a metal table and each finger is laid flat on the surface, ready for me, I address him again. “Mr. Berg, you’ve been a really bad boy. So here’s how it’s gonna go. I’ll ask questions and for each answer, you get to keep your fingers. Every time you lie or refuse to give me what I want, chop chop.” I mimic scissors with a manic smile.

The scent of urine permeates the air and I see Pierce’s nose crinkle in the corner of my eye on his otherwise impassive face.

“You’re not very tough, are you? I haven’t even started,” I pout.

Pierce must think me insane. Two parts of my brain are at war. The one who wants to hide so he doesn’t leave and the one who wants to scream at him to watch, to see, so that he does. Or maybe so that he’ll decide he’ll still stay even after witnessing what I am.

“Let’s start, shall we? Who hired you to burn my businesses down and steal from me?”

The man’s face blanches, recognition in his eyes. Sweat covers his brow and he swallows thickly. One time. Two times. He turns to Pierce with a pleading look.

I use a blade to turn his chin back to me. “Don’t look at him, he won’t help you. Now answer the fucking question.”

He hesitates and I slice the knife on his left pinky, severing it clean off. It rolls and falls off the table with a wet thud. I guess I do have an MO.

The yell of pain and the fear etched on his features set my blood on fire, adrenaline rushing to my senses, making them sharper. Sweat beads on his forehead, tears stain his cheeks, crimson blood pools on the table under his hand, flecks hitting my white clothes.

I started wearing white to work the summer I turned nineteen, after one particularly brutal torture session. Blood kept splattering across my white summer dress and I got entranced by the vision. Since then, Giulia and I created a fashion company that exclusively sells white clothes splashed with red, to resemble blood and invoke the idea of murder. We think it’s fucking hilarious. It also makes us shit ton of legal cash, and covers for all the actual blood-stained jackets, pants and dresses I end up with when I need to get down here. No one ever knows if I’m wearing our brand, Rouge, or actual blood.

Before I can cut another finger, Mr. Berg stutters an answer. “Please. Please stop. I got an anonymous phone call. I got five thousand euros for it.”

“Good boy,” I pat his cheek with the bloody blade then hoover it over another finger. “What else did they ask? To kill people? My staff was there, you piece of shit.”

“Nothing. Just to destroy the place. I swear I don’t know more. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I’m sorry.”

“Liar.” Pierce's outburst surprises me. “You know how I can tell you’re lying? You keep looking to your right before answering.”

My anger slowly shifts. I have to press my thighs together to stave off some heat building in between. My smile takes my entire face at his display of violence, and his valuable observation skills. The air thrums around him with the promise of more bloodshed. I glide to him and hand him the knife. “Want to take over, mo caru?”

He hasn’t moved from his spot by the door but his eyes have darkened. Looking down at me with riveted attention, he takes the knife and marches to Berg to cut off another finger in one sweep of the knife without warning before settling it between his legs.

I groan softly. I really get hot and bothered at the worst of times.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“Fine. Fine. I was contracted to hit this club. Tonight. Please…”

Rage floods my vision and I pick up the hatchet from the wall before descending it on his wrist on a yell, blood spurting on Pierce’s cheeks and all over my clothes. The man passes out. I drop all weapons and shake him to wake him up “Who fucking hired you?”

He’s in and out of consciousness; “I don’t know” are the only words that pass his lips.

I pant, the drip of blood splattering the floor in my ears and the scent of copper in my nose my only focus. Until it’s replaced by bitter orange and lavender.

“Lana.” I look up to see Pierce painted with blood and the vision could bring me to my knees. He looks like an angel of death, nothing like the calm and collected man that can win boardrooms. Pierce searches my gaze before he nods solemnly. My shoulders drop an inch at the absence of disgust on his handsome face.

“What happens now?” he asks.

“I can’t let him live. He threatened my people.”

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