Page 6 of Isle of Pain

“Find everything on Meg Anthony.”

I hang up on my brother without ceremony. I’ve never understood people’s need for useless chatter, greetings or goodbyes. They’re inefficient communication, nothing but void words that occupy time and space needlessly.

The engine of my car roars to life when I turn the ignition, warmth and comfort spreading in my bloodstream as I speed through the streets of London. She can’t be far.

I race with myself through the city, waiting on the information I’ll need for tonight’s mission. My personal vendetta. Though I doubt I will be avenging only myself.

Ten minutes later, the phone on the dashboard rings. Andrea’s voice comes through.

“She’s a piece of work,fratellino. Two restraining orders from male teenagers dating from three years ago. Used to work at Churchill High School in Camden until then. Couldn’t find any other legal paperwork against her but…”

Giulia, my sister-in-law, finishes the sentence for him. “I found the notes of the kids’ school therapist. She’s a predator.” Her usual chiming voice is low and cold, hate pouring from behind the phone.

I’m not surprised Andrea let her in on the research. She’s just as good with uncovering secrets, and takes everything personally. Her loyalty to my brother has been hard earned and is still shaky most days, but she’s an integral part to our small family unit. The three of us, I like the image.

“Thanks,” I tell her.

“So, you’ve known Giulia for three months andshegets a thank you, when I’ve been your brother for twenty-six years and I get hung up on every time you need shit?” Andrea asks with both outrage and amusement.

I’ve learnt the best way to connect with people on a deeper level, especially family members and close friends, is through teasing. It’s easier now with Giulia helping. They’re both easy to rile up. All I need is to favour one or the other.

“She’s nicer than you.” I shrug though he can’t see it. “And I like her better.”

“You little shit!”

I smirk and hang up, shaking my head at my older brother’s antics. Such a hot-blooded man. We couldn’t be more different, and that’s our strength.

My phone chimes with Meg’s address and I make my way there in minutes, slaloming in between people who respect speed limits. Since my father taught me to only respect the laws that make sense, I’ve never driven like everyone else.

And I’ve killed more people than I can count. They all deserved it.

Now, I’m about to collect another wretched soul.

Many people think killing is an act of mania. A disgusting action born from a dark soul, with no purpose and no method.They couldn’t be more wrong. Death is a methodical process. One I respect every step of.

She will die, without leaving a trace, like the cockroach she is.

I climb out of my car and up the stairs of the white three-story building she lives in, then knock on the door.

Wide eyes welcome me, but she opens the door for me. She’s making this so easy, probably believing I came here to apologise. It’s simple when people’s beliefs and misconceptions play in my favour. I can use their own mind against them without lifting a finger.

Meg turns her back on me to pick a cup of tea up, and I strike. The syringe hidden in my right pocket enters the delicate skin of her neck, the drug I inject melting into her system in seconds. I always have a few handy in my car.

“What are you doing?” She screeches and struggles before she falls limp at my feet. Suxamethonium paralyses the body in thirty to sixty seconds. Using it makes my job easier when I need to subdue someone. I work smarter, not harder. Why would I fight anyone when I can knock them down with a drug so easily accessible on the market?

Under the cover of night, I set her up on the passenger’s seat as if she were asleep. London is too big of a city to own every single cop. This isn’t West Hill, my brother’s territory. It’s better if I avoid them altogether but if I ever come across the police, no one can ask me why I have an unconscious body in my truck. Besides, my trusted Valhalla doesn’t have a trunk.

Swiftly, respecting the speed limits this time, I drive to my home in the forest surrounding West Hill, an hour away from London.

Tonight, Meg Anthony will take her last breath.

3

NICO

DEATH IS A METHOD

When Meg is safely secured with her hands hanging from the ceiling and the rest of her body barely touching the floor of the barn I converted into my workshop, I walk to the small closet to the right of the sterile room. Pure white walls and the brightest white light create a clinical atmosphere worse than any hospital in the world. At least in hospitals, they try to make the space feel warm.

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