The killer of killers
«Write: “the undersigned”, add your name, surname, and tax code; “declares to be the head of the criminal underworld in this area”. Period. “Declares to have committed the offenses mentioned in attached note number one, either personally or as the instigator”. Period. “Declares that the identities and roles of the members and affiliates of the clan are listed in attached note number two...“»
The bunker, carved out in the basement of a luxuriously furnished house in Southern Italy, now resembled a slaughterhouse. It was incredible how a single individual could wreak such havoc right on the day of the clan’s general meeting.
The boss stared, trembling, almost mesmerized, at the hideout littered with the corpses of his men. He was the only one left alive, and every square inch of that room was covered in a thick layer of blood. The damask wallpapers and golden furniture were soaked in scarlet liquid, to the point where the designs of the Persian carpets were barely distinguishable. Everything was so surreal through his tear-blurred eyes. It felt like being trapped in a horrific nightmare, but the nauseating smell of gunpowder, death, and bodily fluids reminded him that, absurd as it seemed, this was reality.
«“Furthermore, declares that the undersigned and the clan in general are, either personally or through proxies, owners of the properties mentioned in attached note number three and the bank accounts mentioned in note number four”. Go to the next line. “Therefore, the undersigned hereby relinquishes to the Municipality all assets, movable and immovable, described in the aforementioned notes attached three and four, for the purpose of being made available to the community and for the fight against organized crime”. Period. Done! So... why the fuck aren’t you writing? Wouldn’t you want me to break you another finger, huh?»
He turned his chestnut eyes, filled with tears and dismay, towards the individual addressing him: dressed in a black tactical suit brimming with pockets, weapons, and various gadgets, a long chain hanging from his back, and a peculiar full-face helmet obscuring his face and distorting his voice.
He immediately knew who that man was: the media had dubbed him the “killer of killers.” When, months ago, the first small-time crooks of the underworld began disappearing and dying under mysterious circumstances, the lowest rungs of the ladder, nobody paid much attention, not even him. But soon, the trail of death ascended the hierarchical ladder of the clan, and it began making headlines, putting him on alert. He had thought of a rival gang or a covert operation by the Police or the Secret Services; but he never would have imagined that it could be the work of one man, let alone that this individual would manage to climb the criminal ladder to reach him, a fugitive for almost twenty years.
The “killer of killers” had stormed into his house during the general assembly attended by all the affiliates. Although the boss had managed to take refuge with his best men in the bunker, beyond a trapdoor under the basement floor, the assassin soon caught up with him, slaughtering anyone who stood in his way. He still vividly remembered the screams of those individuals torn apart by pain, the sound of gunfire, and the hiss of the chain the invader wielded, deflecting bullets and smashing skulls. Everything had been so fast and unexpected that the boss hadn’t even had time to react. In an instant, he found himself strapped to the chair behind the desk. His body was immobilized by the tight coils of the chain the assassin held in his left hand, while in his right hand, he held a bloodied blade fixed to the other end of his peculiar weapon. The killer had already broken one of his legs and a finger to persuade him to cooperate, and he certainly wouldn’t hesitate with the remaining bones.
«So, are you going to start writing or not? » the killer demanded, with a tone far too calm.
«I’ll never do it, you bastard!» The aging Italian gangster, now well into his sixties and hardened by decades of crime and abuse, continued to flaunt his pride, attempting not to be completely overwhelmed by terror.
In response to that insult, the other gave a tug on the chain. The last coil, wrapped around the old man’s neck, tightened, causing him to spasm and emit a muffled groan.
«Come on, boss! I don’t have all day. Know that if you don’t do it, I will. You know, I’m quite skilled at forging writing and signatures. I’ve had practice, look!»
With a sudden gesture, the masked person forcefully planted the tip of the blade into the table, freeing his right hand, which he brought towards one of the countless pockets scattered on his jumpsuit. He fumbled for a moment, then managed to extract a crumpled sheet of paper that he waved in front of the prisoner’s face. Various nonsensical words and phrases were scribbled on it, seeming to be written and signed by the boss himself.
A mixture of terror and anger contorted the tear-streaked face of the man. He was trapped, but he wouldn’t give up. «It will never work! No one will ever believe all this! No one will allow this to happen!»
The killer remained for a moment, almost amused by observing him: the man’s resilience was admirable, the way he continued to fight despite having lost everything. He truly deserved his place at the top of organized crime, as well as that atrocious treatment.
He crumpled the paper between the fingers covered by black gloves and casually stuffed it back into the same pocket from which he had extracted it. «It doesn’t matter whether they believe it or not. An official document is indisputable, that’s why your notary is still alive. Isn’t that right, Mr. Notary?» He gestured towards a man slumped on the ground, at the feet of the golden chair to which the prisoner was chained. He had his legs and left arm fractured and lay motionless on the blood-soaked Persian carpet. At first glance, he could have been mistaken for one of the other corpses, were it not for the imperceptible rising and falling of his chest. Perhaps it was his intent to be mistaken for dead.
«Even if I wrote this damn document, he would never officiate it!» roared the boss.
The assassin yanked the knife from the table. He twirled it between his fingers with calm movements, almost mesmerized by the bloodstains adorning it. In silence, he brought it close to the old man’s neck, who froze instantly; he seemed to have even stopped breathing as he followed his movements with eyes filled with apprehension. The killer let out a tight-lipped chuckle when he saw the other squeeze his eyelids shut, just as the blade’s edge brushed against his throat; but he didn’t go further, merely running the metal over the prisoner’s beige shirt collar a couple of times. He brought the weapon back in front of his own eyes to ensure it was clean enough, letting out a satisfied sigh.
«Don’t you really think he wouldn’t sign it? What do you think, Mr. Notary? You value your life, don’t you? It seems like you’re doing quite well. You just bought a villa with a pool on the coast, didn’t you? How many deeds resulting from threats and extortions did you have to officiate to afford it?» He gave a slight kick to the legs of the man slumped on the ground, eliciting a subdued groan. «Is that the one with the beautiful Versailles-style salon, isn’t it? The alarm code should be 6321... or am I wrong?» The notary shivered. «I’ll take that as a yes.» The killer let out a faint chuckle, then turned again to the individual chained to the chair, staring him straight in the face. «So, boss, shall we get moving? As you can see, the notary is eager to work!» With lightning speed, he drove the blade into the boss’s healthy leg. The boss’s piercing scream of pain echoed within the bunker walls. «Come on, if you behave, maybe I’ll save you.»
It took a good half hour and two more broken fingers, but in the end, the letter was ready.
«Well done! See, with a little goodwill, everything is possible? Now... put a nice signature and yesterday’s date. Don’t worry: I’ve already bought the stamp, my treat, of course.» Through the dark visor of his helmet, the killer watched the prisoner sign with trembling fingers. He slapped him forcefully on the shoulder, in a sarcastic gesture of compliment, then, after grabbing the paper, carefully affixed the stamp. «Come on, Notary, your moment has finally come!» He yanked the bureaucrat to make him sit against the wall. Satisfied with his disheveled position, or simply aware that he couldn’t get any better, he passed him a pen, convincing him to grab it with a gentle tap of the gun barrel on his skull. He then held the paper in front of his face, supported by a rigid folder found on the desk.
For fear, the man could barely breathe. His face was a mask of blood and tears. His eyes lifeless, as if his soul had already abandoned that tortured body. He didn’t even have the strength to speak. The pupils moved slowly from the gun looming over his forehead to the paper. He lifted with difficulty the only limb left unharmed and with an automatic gesture, almost as if under hypnosis, he signed, formalizing the document.
«Thank you, Notary, excellent work. It’s really a pity that this will be the last document resulting from threats you’ll sign.»
The trigger clicked, and the man collapsed lifeless onto the blood-stained floor.
«Very well,» the assassin began with a satisfied tone, holstering the pistol on his right thigh. He pulled out an envelope from a pocket, which seemed already full of other papers, and carefully inserted the document. «A little lick here, please.» He forcefully clenched the boss’s jaw, making him open it, then passed the adhesive flap of the envelope on his tongue. «I even offer the stamps, don’t thank me!»
«It won’t work! I’ll take everything back and I’ll kill you with my own hands! You cursed bastard!» The chain tightened with increasing force around the old man’s neck, tearing his skin. He began to choke and struggle in the chair in a desperate attempt to free himself, in vain. His face was turning increasingly purple, rapidly tending towards purple. He turned his bloodshot and dismayed gaze towards his tormentor, who silently and motionlessly watched him agonize. Not a twitch or a sign of pity, he seemed far from intending to loosen his grip. With the last breath of air he had left, he mumbled, «Y-you said you w-would s-save me.» The tension around his throat eased. He watched the killer slowly move a hand towards the helmet, lifting the visor to stare him in the eyes. The prisoner’s body was seized by a shiver and instantly paralyzed under that gaze, which seemed able to pierce him like a blade.
Without ever breaking eye contact, the assassin spoke with a steady voice: «You know, boss, some say only God can judge us, so I’ll leave it up to him whether to save your rotten soul or not.» He leaned close to his suffering face until he could see his own irises reflected in the man’s eyes, «Look into my eyes and remember them well, filthy bastard. And when you’re in hell, feel free to say it was these eyes that sent you there!»
He plunged the blade deep into the boss’s heart, who after a few moments stopped trembling and slumped lifelessly in the chair, with his head tilted backwards and his eyelids wide open.
- NOTICE -
This story is entirely a product of my imagination and is set in an alternate reality, although very similar to our own... let's call it a parallel world, where certain things, although realistic and never science-fictional, happen differently from what we would expect in our reality.
I want to remind you that this book, like any other, is pure entertainment and, despite this turbulent start, I promise that it will bring you some healthy laughter later on.
This is the English version on my original story "La ragazza dagli occhi di ghiaccio", I’m translating it myself, so any advice and correction is welcome.
Meanwhile, thank you for starting to read this book.
I'd like to reassure you that the story won't be as violent as this first chapter throughout. I needed a strong start to introduce the killer, then the plot will take a different turn and a totally different atmosphere, hopefully unexpected and at times amusing, with plenty of irony and humor.
Don't be surprised if at the beginning we don't know much about the characters, because they will be revealed gradually and only when they themselves want to.
And now, let me tell you the story of the girl with the eyes of ice.
- Proxyla ^w^
