Vittorio
That Anafesto piece of shit, mother fucker, Vittorio grumbled to himself. Who the fuck did Rocco think he was, sending fucking assassins to Vittorio’s family home? These types of properties were usually off limits by the mobster code of ethics. Who knows how many people Anafesto would have put in danger if the house had been full of family? This was personal, and Vittorio planned to deal with it as such.
“You wanna kill the girl?” Vittorio taunted the weak man. “Go ahead, try. I fucking dare you.”
“Look man, I’m sorry,” the shooter pleaded. “Please, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll tell Anafesto you weren’t here…”
“But I am here.” Vittorio growled. “You found me. You found your target. Go ahead, scum, finish the job. What the fuck kind of man are you if you can’t even do a simple job?”
“Vittorio!” Sharon cried, her voice squeaked as her terror escalated.
Vittorio ignored her. “If you were one of my men, I’d kill you, just for being so weak. So utterly and completely useless.”
With those words, Vittorio punched the man hard across the face again, causing him to stumble on his already-shaky foundation. He felt the man’s nose break under the hard punch and two fresh geysers of blood burst forth from his nostrils. He swung an uppercut into the man’s stomach and laughed sadistically as the man doubled over in pain.
One hand over his bloodied, mangled face and the other over his achy midsection, the man leered at Vittorio. “Fuck you, Contarini,” he spat.
“Excuse me?” Vittorio asked. He cupped a mocking hand behind his ear, as if he hadn’t heard the shooter. “What’d you say?”
“I said,” the man wheezed, “fuck you.”
“Funny,” Vittorio laughed. “That’s what I thought you said.”
He swooped the man’s legs out from under him with his foot and dropped to his knees to pin the man to the ground. He straddled him and unleashed hell on the man’s head. His hits were so hard they practically echoed around the formal dining room. Blood spattered every which way like a rogue sprinkler, staining the impeccably painted walls.
“Fuck me, huh?” Vittorio taunted as he bounced the man’s head off the floor like a basketball.
“Vittorio, please, stop!” Sharon sounded desperate. Had Vittorio looked up, he would have seen her crying, seen the kindness and goodness in her face and gotten himself under control.
He didn’t look up, though.
The man started to sag, no longer sitting up or attempting to defend himself as his consciousness faded. The rage in Vittorio’s veins felt like fire, burning from the inside out. Even after the man stopped moving, Vittorio continued to hit him.
He felt a tugging on his arm as Sharon tried to drag him off the limp stranger. Vittorio shoved her off, so hard she stumbled back and landed on her ass on the floor.
“What is wrong with you?” Sharon whined.
Vittorio got up on his feet, wiping the stranger’s blood off his stubbled face and flicking it away. He crossed the room to where the handgun lay discarded on the ground. He checked it and confirmed that it was loaded and cocked.
“Don’t!” Sharon begged as he strode back across the room.
Vittorio stood over the shooter and leveled the muzzle of the gun at his brutalized face, reduced to nothing more than a puddle of blood, pus and mangled flesh. A strangled sound came from the man’s mouth, so Vittorio knew he wasn’t totally knocked out.
“I’m not going to kill you because you’re weak, or because you fucked up,” Vittorio told him. “I’m going to kill you because I enjoy it.”
The man choked on one last desperate plea for his life.
“Fuck you.”
Vittorio pulled the trigger and the bullet drilled right through the man’s skull. His body went fully limp, his ruined face relaxing to look off towards the wall. The thrill of the kill coursed through Vittorio’s veins. His mouth watered and he felt a twitch in his pants as the sense of power, of domination, of the true ownership of someone’s last moments buzzed through his mind like a high.