Chapter 25 The Work
Valentina’s POV
Skipper leads me down a grime-caked hallway, his hand greedy at my hip, breath thick with anticipation. The room he chooses is a pit-an assault of filth and neglect. The sheets on the bed are a map of stains, old and new, the mattress sunken, crumpled clothes spilling across the floor. Dishes are stacked on the dresser, crusted with old food, the air sour with sweat, cigarettes, and the ghost of last week’s liquor. Burn marks pock the carpet, white stains blooming across brown fibers. I choke back my revulsion, steeling myself. This is just another stage.
A battered metal chair sits by the wall. I drag it to the center, placing my bag within arm’s reach. While Skipper turns his back to strip off his cut and shirt, I lean down, cool and careful, sliding two knives from hidden loops inside my thigh-high boots. The steel fits my grip like an old promise.
He watches, hunger burning in his hazel eyes. “What’s your name, sugar?” I purr, voice silk over knives.
He grins, cocky and oblivious. “Call me Skipper.”
“Well, Skipper, I have a taste for kink. Can I tie you up? I promise to make it worth your while.”
He laughs, swagger thick in every word. “Babe, as long as I end up buried inside you, do whatever the fuck you want. Hell, slap me around if you’re into it.”
Of course you would, I think.
“Lose the pants,” I order, all steel and seduction.
He tears them off, down to nothing but black briefs. I have to admit-he’s carved from muscle, tattoos sprawling across his chest and arms, wild dark hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. He’s the sort of man girls throw themselves at, but tonight, he’s prey.
He sits. I tear off a length of silver masking tape, winding it around his ankles and chair legs, then behind his back, wrists bound tight. He writhes, eager, breathless. I switch on music, a pulsing bass from my phone, and begin to dance, hips circling, shirt slipping up over my head.
Skipper groans as my breasts bounce free, his arousal straining against the fabric of his briefs. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he pants, eyes devouring.
I stalk around him, hands trailing along his skin, nails scratching his chest, shoulders, down his arms- soft as promise, sharp as threat. He shivers, pleasure warping into anticipation.
Leaning close, my lips brush his ear. I whisper, voice low and venomous, “How much do you think you’d get for me if you sold me like the others?”
For a beat, he’s confused. Then his whole body jerks, rage and fear breaking through the haze. “What
the fuck-?”
Before the rest leaves his lips, I draw both knives and drive them into his neck, one on each side. Arterial blood sprays, hot and red, pulsing with every heartbeat. He gurgles, choking, thrashing, eyes wide with animal panic. I circle to the front, wipe my blades on the filthy sheets, and watch as the light in his eyes gutters and fades.
Buttoning my shirt, I stand calm and detached, heart beating slow and steady. I snap a picture as proof, wipe prints from the chair, the knob, the phone, then slip back out, locking the door behind me.
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The hallway is empty, silent except for the distant pulse of music.
Giuliana steps out from the next room, face flushed, eyes cold. She gives me a crisp thumbs up.
“You clean everything?” I ask, voice low.
She bristles, rolling her eyes. “What, you think this is my first time?”
We smirk, adrenaline humming between us, and slip back into the Furies.
For the next hour, we’re wraiths-seduction and death, moving through the drunken shadows of the clubhouse. One by one, we lure men into empty rooms, binding, blinding, killing with the same cold precision. No one notices the thinning ranks. Bodies blur together in the sweat and haze, girls drape over furniture, most already unconscious, their drinks spiked with our cocktail of ruin. Some men lie passed out where they fall. In a bathroom, we find the Sergeant at Arms slumped over, dead to the world; we haul him into the tub, slit his wrists, let him bleed out in silence. Every kill, we photograph- evidence, insurance, the marks of our passage.
A handful of men are too sharp, too stubborn to drink. For them, Giuliana produces Special K and a silver tongue, coaxing them to chase the high. Stoned and glassy-eyed, we hand them blades, whisper stories about blood and beauty, and watch as they paint the porcelain with their veins. This club is a c ircus of idiots. No one stands guard. No one asks questions.
Only three targets remain: Crosshatch, Bulldozer, Flash. Linsey and Bonnie are nowhere in sight, their absence a chill warning.
I send Giuliana to find them, while I stalk into the kitchen. The three men are clustered around a table, shoveling chips into their mouths, bottles swaying in loose hands, eyes glazed and wild. They laugh, slurred and sloppy.
Flash spots me first, grinning through his stupor. “Look who’s come back to party. Where’ve you been, beautiful?”
Giuliana appears at my side, voice pitched low in my ear. “Linsey and Bonnie are passed out-locked in one of the back rooms. They won’t wake till this is over.”
We exchange a glance. Everything is in place. The hunt is nearly done.
Fatigue weighs on me, more bone-deep than I expect. “I’m tired,” I tell Giuliana, my voice hollow but sharp with resolve. “Let’s finish these three and end this.”
Her lips curl into a lethal smile. “Let’s do it.”
The men stand before us, dazed, drunk-giants brought low by their own vices, swaying as if the floor rolls beneath them. I pull a blade from my purse and, without hesitation, send it flying at Crosshatch. The knife sinks into his left eye, the force snapping his head back. His body buckles, then collapses, face-first, the blade driven deeper into his skull by the weight of his fall.
Bulldozer and Flash freeze, too slow, their minds sodden with alcohol. Giuliana lunges at Bulldozer- quick, surgical. I leap at Flash, a fresh knife in hand. He brings up his arm, the blade crunching through flesh and bone, lodging deep in his ulna. He crashes to the floor, stunned, and I follow him down, fists flying. My knuckles crunch his nose, blood spraying across my chest and face. I don’t stop. Rage carries me until his wild swing clips my jaw, sending me sprawling. He sits up, dazed. I kick, the sharp heel of my stiletto plunging into his eye socket. The sensation is sickening-a pop, a wet give. He howls and goes rigid. I roll upright, rip my knife from his arm, and slash his throat. Blood fountains
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over me, hot and metallic, painting my skin in sticky red.
I whirl, breath heaving, to see Giuliana with Bulldozer trapped between her thighs in a brutal choke. He thrashes, face purpling, hands flailing for her wrists. She holds fast, unyielding, until his struggles fade. She releases, grabs the knife I toss her, and opens his throat with clean efficiency. We each take our trophies-photos, cold and clinical, proof of the job done.
The kitchen is a war zone-blood slicks the tiles, my body streaked in gore, Giuliana wild-eyed and disheveled, her clothes torn, hair tangled. I wipe my hands, grab my phone, and text Linsey with feigned innocence:
We’re leaving-the guys here are getting too handsy. Giuliana and I are uncomfortable. Sorry for bailin
It’s a cover story for later, something to explain our sudden absence when dawn brings carnage to light.
“Let’s take another selfie,” Giuliana says, voice a little shaky but determined. “Send it-and all the
pictures-to Blaise and the guys.’
“Give it a couple days,” I reply, wiping blood from my cheek. “Let them finish their work before we drop this on them. As soon as those photos land, our phones won’t stop ringing.”
She snorts. “Think they’ll be pissed?”
I shrug. “Blaise won’t. This is exactly what he wanted-nobody’s going to think a club did this. No guns, no chaos. This’ll confuse everyone.”
“Yeah. Let’s find the security room, wipe the footage, and take care of the guys at the gate,” Giuliana says, all business again.
Outside, I find the security setup in a sagging shed. No one is watching. Cameras blink, oblivious. I erase every scrap of tonight, gloved fingers moving methodically, then clean the door, the keyboard, every surface I’ve touched.
Back inside, we sweep through the clubhouse-liquor bottles retrieved, fingerprints erased, the last threads of our presence unraveled. I can’t resist posing for a last set of selfies, sprawled beside the bodies of Crosshatch and Flash, a bloody grin splitting my face. Giuliana calls me crazy. I laugh, heart thrumming with adrenaline and satisfaction.
We cut the music, douse the lights, and slip outside. The night feels raw and cold against my blood- soaked skin. I run to the gate as Giuliana pulls the SUV around. The guards are sprawled where I left them, oblivious to the world. I slit their throats with calm efficiency. Inspiration strikes-I kneel, dip a finger in the pooling blood, and scrawl a warning on the corpse’s chest:
Non scherzare con Italia.
On the other, I draw the crest of the Calvetti family-a calling card, a new legend in blood.
Let them all think the mob came calling tonight.
Grinning, I slide into the passenger seat as Giuliana guns the engine. We glide into the dark, the road ahead empty and wide, as if the world itself is eager to forget what we’ve done.
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