"Three," I whisper with a smile as my finger slips over the curved trigger. Click.

A heavy breath rushes from her lungs. I can almost taste her fear dancing over my tongue before I push away from her. "Now things get very interesting, wouldn't you agree, little kitty?" I say. " What to do with you, what to do..." I tap my finger over my chin. She is dangerous, but oh so much fun to play with. I think I should like to keep her, at least a little longer. Besides, fate has decided she is to stay with me, and sometimes the world does line things up for my benefit…

"Sorry to disappoint, Russian," she says tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she sits up. Although she's attempting to remain calm, I still notice the way her chest rises and falls in ragged swells, the remnants of tears lingering on her cheeks. "You know, in most cultures it would be considered rude to try and shoot a girl while she still has your come on her thigh." She is so strong. So very strong, I almost admire her for it.

"So eloquent." My gaze falls to her bloodied chest and I grin. "Shouldn't you thank me for not killing you?"

"That was luck, not choice. Though It does beg the question: why?" She pushes to her feet. "You no longer need me, or you wouldn't have put a loaded gun to my head." She circles me, stopping to brush her lips over the cut on my throat. "Why not just kill me?"

I trail my fingers along her jaw. "I never needed you."

"You also never put a gun to my head."

"What can I say? Your amusement's wearing thin."

"And yet, you removed three bullets."

"The thrill of the hunt would have been lost had I known the prey would surely die." I smile.

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes fixing on my neck. "I no longer amuse you. I no longer serve a purpose. I'm not dead yet, so what now?"

"Oh come now, you don't want to ruin the surprise, do you?" I adjust my sleeve before stepping to the doorway.

Anastasia lies outside the door in a pool of blood. It is a beautiful sight; the way the tips of her hair are stained with blood, how her pale skin serves as such a contrast to the vibrant red, but despite the artistry I find in it, Camilla ruined everything. I cannot deny that, and when I went to kill her, I didn't—no, fate didn't. I would have killed. I did, after all, pull the trigger, but why so rashly dispose of such a beautiful plaything?

My perfect plan quickly unraveled, but what has having Anastasia dead done? Nothing that can't be cleaned up. Derevichi is still dead, and by the hands of his wife. Sokolov will still take office. So really, nothing has changed.

"Igor," I call. He steps out from the crowd of men, his eyes widening when his gaze drops to my blood-covered throat. "Since Camilla was the one who decided to make such a mess, I believe we'll have her clean this up. Warm Anastasia's car up for Ms. Estrada, would you?"

When I turn around, Camilla glares at me from the other side of the office. "You want me to dispose of your whore?" She asks.

I go to my desk and grab a cigar. "Take her car and dispose of her. No one should be able to realize her throat was slit." She crosses her arms over her chest, and I grin. "She was very distraught," I say, "after all, having lost me to you..." I light my cigar, dragging a thick cloud of smoke deep into my lungs. "I'm sure you could create quite the scene for the press."

Igor steps back into the room dusting snow from his shoulder. "The car is ready, boss."

I puff my cigar, my gaze locked with Camilla's. Oh, I can see the fire already dancing in her eyes but as much as she wants to hate me, she craves me. So she'll do whatever I ask. I flippantly motion toward the door.

"Blood-stained doesn't bode well for subtly dumping a body, Ronan," she says, waving her hand over her dress. "I need to change."

My chest warms with a tingle of excitement. "Makes it all the more thrilling." I snap my fingers at the door. "Igor, bring Camilla a long coat, please."

"Your blood lust might be a problem, Russian."

"Oh, but I don't think it is."

Igor rushes in, holding out a long white fur coat which Camilla slips into, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Go with her," I say, dismissing him as I take a seat behind my desk.

He nods before closing the door behind him.

Camilla can pretend she's annoyed all she wants. I know better. I just let a caged animal out for a short run... I drum my fingers over the table, staring at the crumpled papers, the bloodied letter opener. She is so volatile, so fearless—the ultimate thrill.

I lean my head back against my chair and the cut on my neck pulls open with a sharp sting. Warm blood oozes from the wound, and I smile. She cut me. She would have killed me, and I revel in that.

Placing my cigar in the ashtray, I grab the laptop from the desk, open it, and pull up the security cameras. A grainy image of Igor lumbering down the stairs with Anastasia's limp body slung over his shoulder pops up. Camilla's right behind him, a vision in her white coat. I press the rewind button, stopping the footage shortly after I shoved Camilla into the office, right on the moment when she sliced the blade across my throat. My chest grows warm, my nostrils flare. I watch the screen as she backs away from me. I step forward. Round and round we go until I'm fucking her, jabbing her with a letter opener. I rewind and watch the video time and time again until adrenaline is snapping through me like an open electrical wire. My breathing falls ragged and parts of me I'd rather keep hidden claw to the surface.

There's noise outside the office door. Something bangs against the wall and I push up from the desk, cross the room, and open the door. One of the workers leans over a bucket, ringing out a mop. He places it on the floor and makes one swipe through the blood.

"Stop," I say, my voice echoing through the empty foyer.

He turns and looks nervously at me. My heart hammers against my ribs, sweat pricks over my brow. "Leave it for now."

His gaze drifts from me to the puddle of blood and down to the mop before he shoves the mop in the bucket and heads down the hall. My head spins, my chest grows unbearably tight. I make my way to the staircase and take a seat on the last step, staring at the puddle. There's so much blood, seven liters most likely spilled on my pristine white marble. The smell of iron hangs in the air, and I breath it in. So familiar. So comforting. And I can't help but close my eyes, I shouldn’t for I know what awaits me, but sometimes I must remind myself where this monster came from in order to keep him caged. I slip into the darkness, into the memory of the moment that changed me, the moment I decided I hated my father and that emotions were for the weak.

Sofia’s lip trembles, her eyes fill with tears. We thought our meeting place in this warehouse was safe, but my father and his guards stormed in unexpectedly. He stands against the far wall, glaring at us as he puffs on a smoke. “Please, may I get dressed?” Sofia whispers.

“No!” my father says with a laugh. “Ronan, you have betrayed the Bratva.” He motions toward Sofia. “Sleeping with a rival leader’s daughter… you fool. Do you really think she would be interested in you for any other reason than information?” His gaze strays over my naked body, a snarl of disgust curling his lip. “I should have you killed, but you are my only heir. The Bratva will go to no other family!”

Sofia subtly shakes her head, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “It’s not true…” she whispers and one of the guards backhands her across the face. My chest goes tight when she stumbles, and when I go to move for her, I’m grabbed by one of the other men.

My father laughs. “You are only sixteen, I’ll assume ignorance and a need for a tight pussy is your excuse.” He takes a drag from his cigarette before grabbing my hand and placing a knife in my palm. “I’ll use this to teach you a lesson, to show you what weakness are. You will make this right. You will prove your loyalties to me.” He inches toward my face, hate burning behind his eyes. “Make her bleed for the Bratva.”

I grit my teeth. “No!”

He takes the blade from my hand and presses it to my throat. “Kill her or I’ll do it. Then I’ll kill your mother and your sister.” My heart bangs against my chest in uneven beats. The Bratva is everything to him, and he will do whatever it takes to protect it. “How much blood do you want on your hands, Ronan?” He moves the blade away, shrugging a shoulder as he steps toward Sofia and trails a hand over her side. Rage bubbles through my veins. “Such pretty skin,” he says before slicing along her side. Blood seeps from the wound, trickling down to the dirty floor. He slashes across her chest and she screams. I fight against the guard holding me, yelling for him to stop, but he doesn’t. He keeps cutting and slicing. Her screams eventually take on a rhythm, a song that repeats in my head. When he’s finished, he tosses the knife in front of my feet. The guard releases me and I fall to my knees staring at Sofia covered in blood. The door closes with a loud bang and I crawl over to her, fighting the urge to cry. She’s gasping for breath, her bloodied chest rising in jagged swells. “Please,” she manages. “Ronan… make it stop.”

“You’ll be fine,” I whisper as I drag her into my lap and hold her. I know it’s a lie, there’s too much blood. So much glistening, red blood. She shakes her head. “I’d rather die by your hands than his.”

Swallowing, I glance at the knife a few feet away.

“Please…”

My heart pounds so fast my head swims in a dizzying heat.

“Please, if you love me, kill me. Make me bleed.”

It’s almost as though another force takes the knife and places it in my hand. My entire body shakes when I place the blade over her throat. Is this what love is? Pain. Loss. Grief. A loss of control? My stomach churns. I should have killed her when he told me to, it would have been merciful, clean. I stare down at the mess, the pool of blood seeping around me. The smell of iron hangs heavy in the cold air. Sofia reaches up, weakly trailing her fingers along my jaw, and I watch the tip of the blade as I drag it across her throat. The way the ruby blood bubbles through the cut, I can’t help but drag my finger through it. It’s so quick. Relief resounds within her last breath. Her body falls limp in my arms, cooling as her warm blood pours over me—I know this is something I’ll never forget. Violence and peace mixed into one act, what a beautiful symphony this is.

I finally open my eyes, and am met with Ana's blood once again. A small smile works its way over my lips as I stand, walking to the bucket to grab the mop. When I make my first swipe through it, I hum the tune of “Moonlight Sonata”. It seems fitting, just as it is fitting that I be the one who cleans up Ana’s blood. There’s poetry in it.

To many, death seems like such a tragedy, but it’s not. It’s the final act, the grand crescendo of life. There is beauty within one’s final breath. Such a shame more people don’t understand what a masterpiece it can be.