hurt someone on purpose before Adamo and I started our vigilante journey. There had never been a reason to do it. I wasn’t someone who enjoyed seeing people in pain. It didn’t give me a kick, or even fascinated me.
Adamo was different. I occasionally caught the flicker of eagerness in his dark eyes when we’d discussed possible torture methods that we could try on number two. Adamo had called them by their names in the beginning but I preferred to give them numbers. It made them appear less human and more like the monsters that haunted my nightmares.
The basement was dank and the stench of something rotten and piss hung in the air. Maybe rats. A few smaller puddles of water littered the floor where the ceiling leaked.
“We could have used one of the Camorra torture rooms. They are better equipped and cleaner,” Adamo commented as he shoved the struggling man toward the wall. He collided hard with it and fell to his knees with a pained gasp.
“No,” I said firmly. I’d already accepted too much help from the Camorra, and technically still was, even if Adamo didn’t do this in his capacity as a Camorrista but as my… lover. Boyfriend? I pushed the thought away.
Number two turned around and stumbled to his feet. His eyes sought mine. They lacked emotion and I vividly remembered the blank look in them as he’d laid hands on me many years ago. He’d paid extra. I remembered that too. My mother hadn’t wanted him to see me again but eventually Cody convinced her because the money was too good. Three encounters… three horror-filled hours. I didn’t remember much of them, as if my mind had blacked out parts to protect me.
Adamo held the knife out to me, a smaller, curved blade, not meant to kill, but maim or skin. After he’d pinned my abuser on the ground, Adamo used duct tape to bind the man’s hands and feet together.
The man struggled against his restraints, and for the first time, true fear flashed in those pitiless eyes. I nodded with a bitter smile. “That’s what I felt.”
I remembered the choking fear, the daunting panic and eventually the heart-breaking realization that I was helpless. That even my mother wouldn’t stop him. But today I was the one in control. I approached him slowly, my fingers around the blade tightening.
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
The man’s brows furrowed as he scanned my face. “No! I swear. This must be a misunderstanding.”
It wasn’t. I recognized him and the Falcones had made sure he was the right person. There would be no mistakes, no regret, no mercy.
I glanced at Adamo and gave a short nod. Adamo unpacked his laptop and set it up in front of the man. “Watch it closely,” Adamo said, fury tinging his voice. Violence twisted his expression. I took strange consolation in the realization that even if I’d fail, Adamo would be there to do what I couldn’t.
The video began and the man’s eyes widened with surprise. I stepped back, allowed him to watch the videos of us. On occasion, eagerness flickered in his eyes and my stomach tightened at his obvious excitement over what he’d done to me many years ago. I wanted to believe that people could change, that they could better themselves, but so far Adamo’s and my experiences proved the opposite. Adamo leaned against the wall to the man’s right with balled fists. It was obvious how difficult it was for him to hold himself back. Every time my abuser showed signs of enjoyment, Adamo’s body rocked forward.
I turned the video off when I couldn’t bear another second. I allowed myself a few deep breaths to steal myself, to lock little Katinka away deep inside my mind before I confronted my past tormentor. “Do you remember me now?”
His gaze snapped up to mine. He didn’t say anything but the nervous back and forth of his eyes told me he was trying to think of an excuse. I lifted the knife. He began struggling against his restraints again and screamed at the top of his lungs for help. I flinched at the volume, goosebumps rising on my skin. I stepped closer and held the knife right in front of his face. “Stop screaming,” I whispered harshly. My voice wasn’t as strong and threatening as I wanted it to be.
The man didn’t stop. He struggled even harder, almost topping over backwards with the chair Adamo had tied him to. “Shut up,” I