Page 43 of Wicked Roses

“Fuck off! You’re inventing shit now.”

“This is the last time I’m asking. Think before you answer. You’ll regret not coming clean.”

“I said fuck off! I ain’t involved in nothing. You’ve got the wrong guy.” Ralph clamps shut his mouth in a show of defiance.

“Suit yourself. Stitches, looks like you get to have some fun today.”

“W-what sort of fun?” Ralph’s gaze flits from me to Stitches as he sets down his medical kit.

“You chose not to answer my questions honestly, Ralphie. Which means now you’ll need to sacrifice something. Think of it as a lesson learned. You do as we say... and maybe you can save the rest of your limbs.”

Ralph screams at the top of his lungs as Stitches comes up from behind and straps down his left arm with a thick leather belt. From inside his medical kit, Stitches withdraws his tools—latex gloves, goggles, a wad of rubber, some towels, and a blunt hacksaw. Last but not least, he shakes a bottle of 800 milligram tablets of Motrin in front of Ralph’s terrified face.

“Brought you a treat. Some pain killers,” Stitches says, grinning. “I’m a civilized guy. Imightgive you one if you say pretty please. Believe me when I say you’ll be grateful after the fact.”

“W-what are you gonna—FUCK NO!” Ralph screeches as Stitches lays the hacksaw down on the coffee table in front of him. “Get that shit away from me! You guys can’t be serious right now… you… you can’t do this!”

“Don’t worry,” I say calmly. “Stitches is the second best qualified med student who flunked out of Northam Medical School. You’re working with the best of the worst. I’m sure he’ll be able to stitch you up good.”

“Passable at least. My name’s not Stitches for nothing.” He replaces his wire-framed glasses with his goggles and lays down the bath towels he’s brought along.

“Use Rhino’s fur rugs. They’re ugly as shit anyway. It’ll give me an excuse to trash them.”

Ralph’s screams fill the room as Stitches takes the hacksaw and presses down firmly against his wrist. Beads of blood surface immediately. Stitches slides the jagged piece of metal back and forth in a hypnotic fashion. I sit back on the leather sofa and watch as I sip the rest of my whiskey.

Stitches does him the courtesy of making it fast. He hacks into Ralph’s wrist with the blade as if we’re at some fucking deli counter in a grocery store. He slices through his flesh, blood leaking from the amputation and staining Rhino’s white fur rugs.

For as long as he can hold on, Ralph screams and shakes, his eyes wide with terror. Eventually, once Stitches makes it to the bone, he passes out. It’s easier that way, allowing for Stitches to finish the job without his hysterics.

Though definitely less entertaining as a spectator. Blood even flecks onto my shoe from where I sit across from the show.

I polish off my whiskey and rise up. Ralph Mirra’s severed hand flops pathetically onto the bloodied rug. I’m almost tempted to pick it up and wave it around for shits and giggles. If the situation weren’t so rage-inducing, I would.

This piece of shit likely works for whoever set Delphine up. I’d kill Ralph right now if I didn’t think there was a chance he might eventually give up and come clean. We need whatever information he’s holding onto. We’ll do whatever it takes to him to retrieve it.

Who’s he working for? And who orwhatis Volchok?

“Have Fabio clean up this mess. You take our new friend Ralphie to our holdover room downstairs. He hasn’t finished helping us out.”

“Psycho?”

I make a noise from my throat in answer. I’m already walking to the door.

“You’ve got blood on your shoe.”

“I know. It looks good, don’t you think?”

* * *

From the moment I set foot inside the loft, music fills the place. It’s different than what I’m used to. My loft is almost always silent, even when I’m home. Other than the occasional sports game I catch and movie I watch, I tend to prefer my place as quiet and still as possible.

It’s why I prefer being a loner. I might be acapowho leads a crew of men, and the manager of the city’s most popular nightclub, but there’s few better things than absolute solitude. Most people annoy me and I don’t like them in my personal space.

Yet this couldn’t be more different.

The sultry melody thrums through the loft. I follow the sound as if I’m a dumb sailor lost at sea, hearing a siren song play. In a few steps, I reach the hallway and notice the third door down is partially ajar.

Delphine.

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