Page 2 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

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A few weeks earlier

It was a splendid piece,a musical composition that had the power to make you feel the grief and loss even if you had no reason to experience either. The Mass of the Dead was an offering so the departed souls could be laid to rest. On nights like these, such an offering was the only mercy I allowed.

Mozart’s Requiem blended with the pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows. The early-autumn rain, along with the scent of blood, enhanced the unavoidable fear of the one thing none of us could ever escape.

Death.

The sobs of a man knowing he was standing at the gates of hell disturbed my enjoyment of the music. I turned up the volume to drown out his miserable weeping. He begged. He cried. He cursed. But it was all in vain. I had never shown any of these fuckers clemency. None. My lack of empathy ensured that my work was done mercilessly.

“You’re him, aren’t you?”

I ignored him and glanced at my wristwatch. One more hour.

“You’re the man everyone talks about, yet no one has ever seen.” My latest victim raised his voice so he could be heard through the music.

With my back turned toward him, I smiled. “That’s because no one who has seen me lived to tell.”

“Why are you doing this? Why am I even here?”

“My job is not to answer questions or to tell you your transgressions.” I picked up my knife and gently eased my thumb along the sharp edge. “My job is to make sure that fuckers like you no longer walk the streets.” I turned to face him, and his complexion paled instantly.

“Jesus.”

“I’m afraid Jesus isn’t here.” I stepped closer. “Not today, and certainly not for you.”

“Are you that guy, the one everyone whispers about? The killer who carves weird shit on his victims’ chest.” He struggled against the ropes which tied his hands to the chair, his eyes wide and filled with terror. “You’re the—”

“If you’ve heard the whispers about me, then you’d know how this will end.”

“Who is it? Who put a price on my head? Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”

“Careful, now. Desperation will only make you look more pathetic. Besides,” I touched the tip of the blade in my hand, “it doesn’t matter who’s paying me since I have my own reasons.”

“What? What the fuck did I do to you?”

I approached him, one slow step after the other. This was the part I loved the most. The role where I played God, prolonging the inevitable simply to fuck with their minds. There was nothing more torturous than waiting for that which you feared more than anything else.

Sweat ran down the back of his neck, soaking his collar and leaving the ends of his hair wet, clinging to his skin. He reeked of aftershave, perspiration, fear, and piss. One would have thought that for a fifty-two-year-old man who had been a part of our society his whole life, he’d be wise enough to know not to fuck with the wrong people. But yet, here we were.

“Please!” His sobs grew louder, and it became increasingly hard to hear the music through his pathetic crying. “I’m sorry. Whoever it is, whatever they want, it’s theirs. Just don’t kill me.”

“Even if by some miracle your death is no longer required by my employer, I’m afraid due to personal reasons I cannot show you mercy.”

“I didn’t do anything to you. Fuck, I don’t even know who you are.”

“It’s not something you did to me.”

His eyes narrowed, confusion clouding his expression. “Then what the fuck is this about?”

I placed the tip of my knife at the side of his neck against the pulsing vein, and he jerked his head to the side.

“Please stop. Don’t do this.”

“You thought you buried all your secrets,” I dragged the blade down toward his throat, “but I found them.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whined. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

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