Page 17 of As Devils Love

“The money’s good, I’ll give Matteo that, but I’m here for a diffe—”

“Wait a second, do I know you?” Rocco cuts me off. My chemical cocktail must be releasing its hold on him.

Good.

“Do you?”

He does. But I don’t want to spoil the fun for him yet, and I quickly change the subject. “Back to what I was saying. Between Matteo Baronne and a dear friend of mine, I’ve barely had time to myself as of late. And I truly cherish moments alone.”

“Are you one of those sick fucks who gets off on banging corpses?” Rocco speaks in such a deadpan manner that even I want to applaud him. Not for what he says, that’s just vile, but for the fact that he is staring into death’s eyes and refusing to back down.

“No, you silly little man.” There isn’t anything little about the behemoth sitting in front of me. He’s taller and more broadly shouldered than me, and his bald head is nearly double the size of mine. “It’s because I can say what I want. Do what I want. And there are absolutely no consequences. Like telling you I work for Matteo, or that I’m the man who slaughtered your friends.” His face doesn’t move. “You’re the only person I can be completely honest with.”

“And what’s so important that you had to kidnap me to get it off your chest?” He refers to my first two points as if we are chatting about the weather during a lunch break.

“Fiametta Napoli,” I say.

His eyes widen as if my speaking the name of the Don’s jewel is a curse. Shock turns to terror, and Rocco’s limbs start to rattle the chains that are keeping them in place. Perhaps I was mistaken about him. His suave calm is starting to crumble quite quickly.

“There’s something special about that pretty little thing, isn’t there?” I stare straight into his fluttering eyes. He can’t keep them still long enough to focus on anything in particular. Not that there’s anything in my chamber to look at.

Though I change the layout from person to person, the general vibe is always the same. Empty walls, a chair, and whatever they’re bound to.

Most importantly, the six-inch dagger I play with throughout our entire conversation is always the same.

“Managed to stoke a fire in this cold heart of mine.” I go on, as panicked huffs and uneasy grunts come Rocco’s lips. “It’s fitting that her name means flame, isn’t it?”

“Who are you?” he gulps. “Where am I?”

“This again?” I growl and my annoyance starts to build. “I ignored it once; do you really think I’ll do anything different this time?”

Yeah, Iwaswrong. It must have been shock that kept Rocco cool as a cucumber. Now that it’s starting to wear off, and adrenaline is taking over, his actual personality is starting to shine through. And here I thought, I’d finally met someone who could go toe-to-toe with me.

Ah, well, such is life.

“What is this place? How did I get here?” His eyes narrow as he prepares his final question, but he can’t face me while asking it. “What have you done with my wife and kids?” Rocco’s voice increases in pitch and temper as he thinks about his family. He makes a valiant attempt to lunge at me, but the chained collararound his neck chokes him back into his chair and makes him splutter.

Took you long enough to remember you had a family.Thatshould’ve been his first thought, especially since I snatched him straight out of his home while they were in it.

“Thank whichever God you pray to that I have a soft spot for children,” I say, rotating the dagger in my hand until it catches the only light above us and reflects it into Rocco’s eyes.

Men and women are vile creatures. Wasted meat bags that hurt without care and take by destroying. Children are innocent. They aren’t born the monsters they become. They’re molded into them.

It’s a reality I understand, better than most.

“But we aren’t talking about you, Rocco. We’re talking about me. That’s why you’re here and not lying in some awkward position for your boss to find. You’d be wise to remember that.”

“Why me?” His eyes finally settle once the light strikes them.

“Your name is next on Matteo’s list. You’re not special, if that’s what you’re wondering.” That last part’s a lie. Over and above being on Matteo’s list, Rocco D’Angelo has been on mine for a very long time. “You’re an ear that’s about to go deaf, and it feels good to talk things out. Reasoning with the voices in my head doesn’t quite cut it sometimes.”

This conversation doesn’t feel like anything to me. It’s a tendency that’s part of the disease that my military doctors dubbedpsychopathic tendencies. And since they made it very clear that traditional therapy won’t work for me, and that I’d be better off institutionalized, I resort to bouncing my wicked ideas off whoever ends up down here.

I’ve learned, through copious studying of the trade, that talking is the root of a therapy session. Some sources approach it with the utmost love, proclaiming it saved their lives, whileothers believe you’re paying someone to tell you why you’re right in doing what you do.

My results have varied, but the conclusion remains the same: the word of a man on the brink of death, someone who has lost everything and doesn’t need to stimulate or berate you because of learned methods or societal norms, is the perfect candidate to set you straight. There’s no reason to lie when you’ve got nothing to lose.

“Fiametta. Tell me about her,” Rocco brings the conversation back around. Buying time against the inevitable, I presume.

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