“We stopped looking for monsters under our bed
when we realized that they were inside us.”
—Charles Darwin
A string quartet. Two violins, two cellos. A smooth and constant build up before they’re competing for the climax.
No, no, that’s not right.
A solo. A single cello, slow and haunting. A lazy, rhythmic tap against a drum echoing in the far-off distance.
Yes, that’s it.
My solo.
Sometimes it feels like painting. Other times it’s poetry. And then there are days like today—it’s music, old world and mystic. I have no preference, really. Art is art.
Isn’t that right, Katerina?
“How many?” I ask, inhaling his screams and pocketing them in my lungs as I dig the knife a little deeper against his cheekbone then slide it downward. “I’m aware of how many died and had their parts sold. What I want you to tell me”—the slab of skin falls to the ground, my fingers almost as red as his neck. His eyes roll back—“is how many you, personally, sold. How many transactions did you see through?”
I take a step back, angling my head and honing my gaze on his unmarred cheek. It’s harder than it looks, making both sides of the face match evenly. But I like to take my time and get it just right.
Katerina took her work seriously in the studio. Fortunately for the victims, she had already killed them by the time she started removing the flesh from their bones. Unfortunately for Hugo, Katerina isn’t the only one who can take their work seriously.
Call me a perfectionist.
At least I learned something.
I grip Hugo’s neck and squeeze until his eyes roll forward to meet mine. His skin is ghastly from the blood he’s already lost, but he likely won’t need another adrenaline injection until the next two or three removals.
“I asked you a question,” I say calmly. I have to close my eyes to refrain from making the next cut too soon. “How many of their bones did you personally sell for Katerina? Whether it was a hand, forearm, hip, or skull, whether originating from the same body or different ones—what’s the total number?”
A wheeze escapes the man in front of me before he manages a faint, “F-fuck you.”
My eyes snap open, lips twitch. “Someone is about to be fucked. And it isn’t me.” I flick my gaze to an electric drill on the stool beside him, and his own gaze follows. It takes him a second to make the connection, but once he does, his mouth falls open and puke hits my shoes.
Really, Hugo?
I set down my knife, opting for the drill. Rotating it slowly in my hand, I inspect it with appreciation. It’s not every day I pull this out, but Hugo Perez is one-third of Katerina’s infamous underground pseudonym, Misha. Only the best for Katerina’s business partners.
My index finger presses the trigger. A low rizzz, rizzz fills my ears, and it’s in perfect harmony with the violin and cello masterpiece suddenly playing so beautifully in my mind.
Huh.
Maybe today is a string quartet kinda day after all.
“Hundreds! Fuck. Fuck,” Hugo spits out, his chest heaving. “I lost count. I must have run hundreds of transactions for her.”
I half-nod, my fingers tempted to wave left and right as I silently direct my own personal orchestra. The rizzz continues, and I saunter beside him, pull on the blood-soaked waistband of his pants. I’ll have to unchain him for this next part.
“W-wait. Wait! Where’s your leniency? Where’s my chance? I answered your fucking question, goddammit!”
My movements still. The music halts, and silence rings in my ears. A muscle in my jaw ticks, but of course my voice remains controlled. I taught myself the value of control years ago—it was either that or lose myself completely to the chaos of my mind.
“Were you lenient, Hugo, when you listened to Katerina’s victims cry in their crates? Or when you knew they were seconds away from death but did nothing?” I tilt my head, rub the bottom of my chin with the drill’s handle. “When I was locked up in the studio, listening to them scream, beg to be spared . . . did you give them a chance?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I’m well aware I’ve lost the emotional capacity I once had. But I remember. I remember exactly what it was like to sit beside them, all of them, as tears streamed down their cheeks and they begged for their lives.
Their reactions only spurred Katerina on. Tears, sweat, choked sobs. To her, that was the only way to create ‘true art.’
I don’t know if Hugo responds. I don’t care, either.
The rizzz, rizzz picks up, the smooth, low vibration of a cello resumes, and I finish my fucking solo.
Adjusting the cufflinks on my crisp black shirt, I stroll down the hall toward Felix’s office. He called me over half an hour ago, but I decided to reward my hard work with an extra-long shower. With my hair still damp and the fresh scent of aftershave lingering on my skin, I’m feeling particularly fucking good right about now.
My phone buzzes, and I shake my head at Felix’s impatience before withdrawing it from my pocket. My steps slow. I narrow my eyes at the screen. What the hell is this? I zoom in on the picture.
Emmy Highland stands on the dining room table. Naked and chained to the chandelier. Her eyes are wide as she stares into the camera, her fingers curled into her palms. With a swallow, I force myself to ignore the bare curves of her body and drop my gaze instead to the candles lit around her feet.
My nostrils flare, my pulse accelerating. After a second, I delete the image, clear the screen, and resume walking. The reaction is illogical anyway. The girl is nothing to me. She signed up for this shit. She can get herself out of it if she can’t take it.
Not a minute later, a text comes through.
Raife: Hope your day has been as eventful as mine. She looks so beautiful when she’s afraid, doesn’t she? She tasted just as good, too.
A growl catches in my throat before I pound on Felix’s office door. It swings open, and I barge inside, almost knocking him down. I was having a great goddamn day.
“Fuck. What’s up with you?” Felix closes the door behind me and walks back to his desk.
He slips into his leather chair and waits as I pace to the window, grimacing at the rays of light pouring onto the marble floor. I pull the blackout curtains over the glass until the room goes dark.
Better. My muscles loosen with the inky surroundings.
I’m not the only one with an aversion to bright lights, but I spent more time in Katerina’s studio than my brothers. I won’t pretend to tolerate it for their sake, and they don’t expect me to.
I’m about to speak when another text lights up my phone.
Raife: Then again, that was hours ago. You should see what she looks like now.
My grip tightens around the phone. Tossing it on the desk, I watch it slide to the opposite end, near Felix; far enough not to tempt me to respond. I lean forward and rest my palms on the desktop, irritation coiling in my shoulders.
When my phone buzzes again, I don’t bother looking. Felix glances toward it, his gaze flicking across the screen, then he groans and rubs his eyes. “You could have Stella send her back, you know. Cut the girl’s contract now, before things escalate.”
I pull in a long breath, then look up and level my gaze on his. “Since when have I been interested in discussing our hires? Let Raife and Stella deal with them, the way they always do.” I pause to work my jaw. “Did you call me in here to talk bullshit or to go over our next play? I want Murphy.”
Arnold Murphy is the last remaining chess piece, the final of the three players behind the pseudonym Misha, and also the most elusive and cunning. He’s been the most difficult to obtain. After a failed attempt to bring him down a few years ago, the four of us agreed to hold off and save Murphy for after Hugo was finished. Who needs a fucking Katerina look-alike when I could finally get Murphy in front of me, face to face, after all this time?
Felix’s eyebrows shoot up. After watching my expression, he shrugs. “All right, man. Then let’s talk Murphy.”
I nod and push off the table, the wheels in my mind already turning. A visual of the bastard tied up, his throat against my knife as he begs for his life, sends a hot rush through me. “We keep it low-key, stay focused on the delivery this time. Do that, and Griff could be bringing him in by the end of the week.”
Felix taps a pen against his desk. “You know Raife doesn’t want him here until we’ve completely ruined him. His law firm, his marriage, his fucking reputation. He wants him crushed, and I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy watch his perfect life go up in flames before you get to him, either.”
My lips curl. “I don’t see Raife. Do you? Have you forgotten what happened after the last time we let Raife have his way with this guy? If he wants a say in what goes, he needs to actually be here to discuss this shit.” My words bite, but my voice is calm as I turn and head for the door. “Otherwise we do it my way, and that’s to cut the fucking theatrics and bring Murphy in.”
My phone goes off right as I finish. I tense, turning just enough to see Felix scan the screen. “Speaking of theatrics,” he frowns and tips his head toward it, “you might wanna stop by the dining room.”
I let out a frustrated breath. He tosses the phone to me, and I slip it into my pocket.
“You’re not even going to look?”
“Nah.” I turn toward the door. “Some things are better seen in person.”