Page 52 of Stealing His Cupcake
In the photo, there’s a heart. The shape of it is made of actual human hearts, at least a dozen of them. The floor beneath them glistens with spilled blood. Inside of the heart, there are two severed hands, their fingers intertwined intimately. One hand is larger and clearly masculine, and I’d hazard a guess that it had belonged to a white male about my age. The other one daintier, more feminine. Its skin took on a grayish hue when the appendage lost circulation, but the hand is unmistakably that of a Black woman.
As if the meaning isn’t clear enough, there’s a large message above the heart in a looping script, the words made of intestines. “CONGRATULATIONS, WYATT!” it says, a severed forearm and a singular eyeball artfully forming the exclamation mark. More organs are arranged around the composition in what I assume are supposed to be flowery shapes. The whole thing makes me want to retch, and not just because of all the gore. It’s because of the hands. A young woman lost her hand—and probably her life too, if the amount of hearts is anything to go by—so that someone could tell me they know about Amy.
I never gave a damn about people going after me. If they’re stupid enough to think they can get me, let them try. I might die, but I won’t cower. Over the years, I’ve killed more than a few people who thought they could exact their revenge on me or earn their stripes by besting me. None of them lived to reconsider their decisions.
With Amy in the picture, everything’s changed. Every fucking thing. How the hell haven’t I realized this before? Anyone going after me will target Amy, because it’s obviously easier to go for a soft target than a trained killer.
My heart skips a beat again, this time for an entirely different reason. Fuck. What have I done? I need to fix this, right now. I can’t possibly be the reason Amy gets hurt or—
No. Nothing is going to happen to her. I will make sure that everyone knows Amy is off limits and that I will obliterate anyone who even thinks about her. And I’ll start by finding the macabre card sender. The messageis too personal to be from a random freak, so it must be from someone I know. But who?
I don’t keep track of my “colleagues” but it’s impossible to move around my circles without catching a name here or a story there. Two names come to mind when I look at the photo, but neither feels right.
Slava and I ran into each other a few years ago after accepting two different contracts on the same target. It nearly turned into a bloodbath because the crazy cunt seemed to hate my guts from the first second we met, but we managed to work it out without violence and parted with the obligatory “If I ever see you again, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head.” Well, I said that, being a civilized person. Slava threatened to mutilate my cock in such a drastic way that my balls tried to shrivel back inside my body.
She’s crazy, that one. Very into cocks. The things she does make even the most hardened cock-owners break out in hives. She’s one of those people who hate every single person on the planet. If there ever were an invasion by flesh-eating aliens wanting to turn Earth into their personal feeding grounds, Slava would totally fight on their side.
However, she’s direct. If she wanted to send me a message, she’d come over to carve it into my flesh herself. Hearts and flowers, even made from actual organs, aren’t her thing.
Organs and gore are definitely Le Boucher’s thing, but I’ve never really interacted with the Canadian hitman. He’s a sadist with a psychotic streak a mile wide, too unstable for most customers’ tastes. He’s also rumored to keep his victims alive for weeks while he butchers them, so cartels and various other organized crime groups often hire him to exact spectacular revenge against people who slighted them. He’d definitely be capable of killing a dozen random strangers just because he needed hearts for a gory arrangement, but why would he send me a message like that?
Families and friends of my targets occasionally come to me to “make me pay”, but that’s usually fueled by righteous anger or shit like that. I doubt anyone would go to such measures just to congratulate me on my wedding.Besides, the message itself isn't necessarily a threat. It’s more like a greeting. That’s when it hits me.
“The fucking kid!” The braindead idiot who came to me in Kansas City. Nolan Whatshisname. He knew who I was, knew my name. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to find out where I live. Or that I got married. Fuck. Did I think he was harmless? I take that back. That kid clearly deserves a bullet, and I’ll be gifting him one the second I find him.
Fuming, I hit the dial. The phone doesn’t even ring once before a deep voice, fake as fuck, answers, “Shade here. Who do you need dead?”
I’m tempted to answer “you” but I hold back. If I play nice, perhaps I can arrange a meeting. The kid wanted to be my damn padawan or something equally stupid. He might serve himself up to me on a silver platter.
“Nolan.” I can’t help but keep the anger out of my voice. He knows about Amy! “Got your message.”
“It’s Shade now, dude! Did you like my pickup line? I plan on using it when clients call. I’ve already put up photos of my handiwork on the forums, so it’s just a matter of time.”
What an absolute tool. “Yeah, a matter of time before the police knock on your door. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? How many people have you killed just to send me that message?”
“Fourteen.” Nolan sounds proud of it. “Took me a while to find a woman with the right skin tone for the, you know, hand. Your woman is not bad. I tried taking one for myself, but it’s hard to keep them alive. Perhaps you can give me some tips, colleague to colleague? How do you stop her from offing you without breaking her? I tried chains, but that cunt was cunning as fuck. Nearly choked me to death.”
Plastic creaks as I clench the phone tighter. Why the fuck did I not kill him when I had a chance? Forcing myself to remain calm, I try to lure him in. “It’s not simple, that’s true,” I say, adding a laugh that sounds fake even to my ears. “Perhaps we could meet up? You wanted me to train you, didn’t you?” Just say a time and date, asshole. I’ll be there and so will the bullet with your name on it.
However, Nolan doesn’t sound as eager about my suggestion as I thought he would. “Well, I did want that, yes, but… You see, now that we’re equals, meeting up doesn’t seem like a very good idea. Y’know, coz we’re both lone wolves. It might get a little…competitive. I would hate to kill my childhood hero.”
As if this bumbling buffoon could ever touch me. I manage not to scoff. “Yeah, it would be a shame if the world was to lose the great Shade.” Fuck. The sarcasm slipping into my voice was so strong even someone as dumb as Nolan could detect it.
“Wyatt, Wyatt, Wyatt,” he tuts. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t appreciate me? That hurts, you know? First you rejected me, even though I would have been the badassest padawan in the history of padawans, and now you’re making fun of me? Not cool, mate. Not cool.”
I should apologize to keep up the ruse, but the words won’t leave my tongue. “What about that meeting?” I ask instead, still hoping to let him come to me. Hunting people down is time consuming, and I’d rather spend that time with Amy. “I promise to rein in my so-called lone wolf instincts.”
“Hmm. Will you bring your fucktoy with you? She’s a little too fat for my taste, but I gotta admit I’m curious about a cunt that made the great Wyatt Archer make a permanent commitment under his true identity. Bro, do you know how fucking stupid that was? Now the cops will be after you when you finally kill that bitch.”
I can almost hear the hiss of my restraint evaporating instantly. “Talk about Amy like that again and I will be the one writing messages with your intestines. While they’re still attached to your worthless body.”
“Ooh.” Nolan chuckles, the sound making my blood run cold as I realize I fucked up. If Amy wasn’t a target before, I just made her into one. Nolan’s next words confirm it. “So you’ve truly fallen for her. Howcute. I wonder how long you’ll keep her alive now that there’s a new hunter in town.” Another chuckle, this one even more deranged. “An apprentice against his master. Classic! The apprentice always wins, you know?”
“I don’t know. Anakin lost all of his limbs after confronting his master. I’m pretty sure his cock burned off, too.”
“Are you threatening me, Wyatt?” I can picture the evil gleam in Nolan’s eyes. “Careful, or it will beyougetting burned. All of you, not just your cock. I think I’ll keep your fucktoy alive for a while, though. Figure out what all that fuss was about. Or maybe I’ll kill her in front of you to teach you one last lesson. How does that sound?”
Forcing myself to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the phone, I growl. “It sounds like a pipe dream. Give up while you’re ahead, kid, or it will be your funeral.”
