Page 3 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

I pressed the knife harder against his jugular. “Eleven years ago, the night of November second.” He stiffened. “Ring a bell?”

If it weren’t for the music playing in the background, this moment would be accentuated by a crushing silence as his mind traveled back in time, back to that one night he thought could be erased from history. A night he buried his sins.

His chest rose and fell, his cheeks wet with cowardly tears and pale with fear-stricken regret. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t fucking do this. I have grandkids. A family.”

Anger simmered, and I pressed the knife so the tip pierced his skin. “What about their families? Those two children?” I pulled the blade down, slicing a thin line in his flesh, blood oozing out as his screams hit the roof.

“Stop! Please!”

“Save your breath, Mr. Rossi. Your begging is futile.”

“I’ll pay you. I’ll give you all the money you want.”

“Money?” I scoffed, lifted the blade from his throat, and walked to stand in front of him. “I can assure you I have enough money of my own. I don’t need yours.”

With a swift tug, I ripped the sweat-soaked shirt down his front. His fat belly and abundance of gray chest hair only added to the disgust I felt for the man. “I bet there’s a special corner in hell for men like you. In fact,” I leaned closer, “I’m sure you’ll recognize a few fuckers when you get there.”

“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” His uncontrollable sobbing continued, spit and snot dangling from his open mouth. It was never a pretty picture seeing a grown man sob like a baby and pissing his pants.

I reached out and turned up the volume of the music, drowning out his incessant cries and pleas. This wasn’t my first rendezvous with a despicable man like him. It amazed me how easily these men who claimed to bask in so much power would shed their regal skin and show what cowards they truly were once a little pressure was applied.

I placed the cold blade against his skin and looked him in the eye as I moved my wrist, allowing the steel to cut his flesh. His screams were deafening. It could peel the goddamn paint off the fucking walls, blending with the splendid music I had playing in the background. To others, it would sound horrendous. To me, it added a powerful echo to the orchestra filling every open space around us.

For the next ten minutes, I carved through the skin of his chest. He sobbed, screamed, jerked, and fought against the pain. But I was too lost in the moment—the music, the blood, the parted flesh. It had to be perfect. I thrived on the pursuit of perfection, which was why every curve, every cut had to be precise and in place. The perfect treble clef.

The orchestra neared the crescendo, and I closed my eyes, enthralled by the deep and distinct tune of a cello that dominated every other musical instrument. Some wouldn’t even be able to distinguish between the different sounds, yet I could. I had listened to this exact composition a thousand times—maybe more. It was a part of my soul, part of who I was and what I did once the sun disappeared in the west. Some said the darkness cloaked the wrongdoings of sinners. It gave them the shadows so they could purge themselves of the evil that festered inside them. But it wasn’t like that for me. The night brought me peace. It gave me the freedom to be who I truly was. It allowed me to shed the skin of a man society demanded I be once the sun peeked over the horizon in the east.

I stood back and leaned my head to the side as I looked at the carving. “Perfection,” I murmured.

“You fucking psycho! Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” More screams. More cursing. More reasons for me to send him to hell.

My sobbing victim tried to look down to see my handiwork carved in his flesh, but his double chin kept him from seeing the whole picture. “What did you do to me, you motherfucker!”

“I carved weird shit—as you put it—on your chest.”

“What the actual fuck?” he cried, more piss running down his legs, the vile stench getting more awful by the second.

I plucked a handkerchief from my pants pocket and wiped the blade of my knife, all the while keeping my eyes on the sick fucker in front of me. “Don’t worry,” I started, placing the knife down and reaching for the gun behind my back. “Soon, the devil will feast on your wretched soul.”

I extended my arm and stepped closer, aiming the gun at his face.

His eyes pinched closed, tears running down his cheeks as he recited a prayer in Italian. A prayer that was of no use to him now. It was too fucking late for him. It was too fucking late for all of us.

“You were right.” I placed my finger on the trigger. “I am him.”

His eyes opened. “You’re the…the—”

“Say it.”

The music ended, and silence settled while he kept his horror-filled gaze locked on mine.

“Say it!” My voice slammed against the ceiling, and he flinched. “Who am I?”

He took a breath, his eyes bewildered and fat cheeks pale.

“Say. It.”

“The Musician.”

I smiled. “That’s right. Now that you know who I am,” I pressed the nuzzle harder against his forehead, “say hi to my mother for me.”

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