Page 129 of The Beautiful Dead

Hell was empty because all the devils were here. And soon, the streets would drown in blood.

I knew we would come out on top—we had to. But Federico had called his remaining guards back, stacking the numbers in his favor. Domino didn’t care. I’d seen him kill men twice his size with nothing but his hands.

He wasn’t just planning to kill Federico. He was going to rip apart his entire world, brick by fucking brick.

The city blurred as we broke through the limits, leaving the glass-and-steel skyline behind. The freeway opened before us, an endless stretch of asphalt leading straight to war.

Domino revved the engine once before launching us forward, the bike growling like a beast unleashed. A second later, static filled my helmet as the opening chords of Korn’s “Dead Bodies Everywhere” filled my ears.

I grinned despite myself. He wasn’t wrong.

We all knew how this would end.

By the time we pulled up to the black gates, my body ached from the ride, but the sight before me sent a slow ripple of pleasure through my veins. Tall, menacing, and reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, the gates stood as the first warning—a barrier between the outside world and the monsters waiting within.

A thick brick wall stretched endlessly in either direction, swallowed by the towering trees that loomed like silent sentinels. But my attention was drawn upward—to the gleaming coils of barbed wire.

God, it was beautiful.

How would it look wrapped around flesh?

The sharp prongs would pierce so easily—soft skin surrendering to steel, beads of crimson welling up like tiny rubies, running in rivulets down trembling limbs. Would it sink deeper if I pulled harder? Could I embed it completely? Twist it into flesh until it became one with the body?

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, my fingers twitched with phantom sensations.

A stunning addition to my collection.

I’d been experimenting with oils lately, testing how the diffusion of light could capture the depth of a wound, the waybruises bloomed like violets against pale skin. But nothing—nothing—could replicate the reality of it.

The textures. The smells. The heat of fresh blood coated my hands, thicker than paint and richer than any medium I’d ever worked with.

I knew the exact pressure required to carve flesh from bone. The force needed to break a man apart.

I craved it. Dreamed of it. Created it.

But it had been too long since Domino had gifted me someone to play with. Too long since I’d been allowed to perfect my work. Art required patience. Precision.

And lately, we’d had none to spare.

The gates groaned open, metal screaming on its hinges, welcoming us into the belly of the beast. We followed the winding driveway along a black river—dark and raging, its currents violent and unyielding.

The house emerged as we rounded the final turn. A behemoth of Colonial wealth and privilege.

It was elegant, sprawling over manicured grounds with a kind of effortless grace that only came with old money. White columns framed the front, standing tall like sentries, their smooth surfaces untouched by time. A second-story balcony wrapped around the facade, polished railing gleaming in the pale sunlight, a place meant for whiskey glasses and hushed conversations, not blood and screams.

Warm light spilled from the tall, symmetrical windows, glowing against rich, brick walls. The heavy oak doors weren’t foreboding like they should’ve been. They were grand. Inviting, even.

It was unsettling. A place meant to be lived in, not just inhabited.

Domino and I knew houses like this; we’d burned one to the ground. I just hoped they didn’t hold that against us. This housewas different. It wasn’t just a display of wealth; it was a home. And that was the part neither of us could understand.

Salvatore stood at the bottom of the steps, watching our approach with calm indifference. No apprehension, no hesitation—just a man who already knew how this meeting would go. Arrogant. Calculated. Dangerous.

A second man stood beside him, tall and unreadable. My fingers twitched at my sides, instinct coiling in my gut.

Domino cut the engine, the roar of the bike fading into silence. I pulled off my helmet, blinking up at them in confusion before slipping off the bike and falling into step behind Domino.

Salvatore’s lips twitched at the corners, arms spreading in a gesture just shy of welcoming.

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