Seventy Seven

Dante

When most mafia soldati killed, they wear black. The color hides bloodstains better than any other.

I prefer to wear white. I want the next man to know what happened to the man before. I want to see the fear in his eyes when he realizes what I am capable of.

Right now, my white shirt is soaked in blood. The metallic smell fills the dungeon and my nostrils, the floor sticky under my leather shoes. It has been so long since I let the darkness take over, and I welcome the sensation. I need to kill, to feel life draining out from under my blade, hear their cries as they beg for me to stop.

My heart pounds, my body alive after days of being numb. I have one purpose now and that is to get my woman back. Anyone who stands in my way will regret it.

Two men lay crumpled on the stone floor at my feet, pools of red beneath them. They haven't talked—but I am betting the third one would.