Insatiable Crimes

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• 3 •


“Just when I thought their attempts to kill me couldn’t get even more pathetic,” I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to duck from the raw-edged fragments.

My father looked me over for gashes, smoothing his Hermes necktie over. “Don’t make me agree with you. It’s honestly depressing.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same for your existence.”

“Funny.” He repeated, not at all amused.

I rose a brow. “Come on, old man. I’d love to keep those bastards waiting, but I have a strong feeling that their expiry date is close enough anyways.”

Heard that, ‘Aged men like fine wine’? The ones downstairs were just plain, old farts, who had enough dollars to wipe their ass clean with, everyday. Every hour even.

“I’ll toast to that.”

We descended down the stairs in silence, my eyes passing a bored glance at everyone present. The smart ones of the lot stood in respect, somewhat reluctantly, and the ones seated and boisterously laughing? Well, I sure as hell was going to have fun putting a bullet in their fucking knees.

Forget standing, they’ll be kneeling at my seven-inch heels till I get bored with them.

Then I’m going to kill them. Plain and simple.

I suppressed a yawn as the ass-kissers approached my father, engaging him in meaningless conversations about the shipment dock they raided; cocaine worth roughly a hundred million dollars.

The gathering at my house was special in a way. They were all a part of the inner circle of the Mafia, who occasionally tried to kill me. A game I invented at thirteen. What can I say except for the fact that I was bored?

A chit was randomly picked from a box, and whoever the person was listed out had to kill me.

If they managed, poof, I was dead.

And if they didn’t? Their goddamn funeral.

Yeah, alright Thirteen year old me must have been very bored.

My eyes ran over them again, looking for the dick responsible for my blown-up room. There were some men that I recognized.

Axel Jackson; A skilled assassin with a doctorate in manipulation. His attempt to kill me wouldn’t be that lame.

A few others too, but none of them looked even remotely guilty.

Caleb; one of few people I could actually tolerate. Surprising, I’m aware. Professional hacker. Good humor.

My favorite crime of his was hacking into the Pentagon and making the officials watch a forty-five minute long, porn movie of a ‘police officer spanking busty blonde babe for going over the speed limit’. Bad acting, too. Pornhub has been lacking quality lately.

I had a good laugh over it, and took him under the Mafia’s protection.

“You know, a funny thing happened with me today,” A dark look crossed my face, contradicting to my phrasing.

All murmurings turned to a halt. Pin. Drop. Silence.

I relished in the terrified looks passed over.

That’s right. Cower before me.

Elegantly, I picked up a glass of amber liquid from the helper, who scurried off to the corner. “I was having a good day after…ah, getting some information out of Parker. High pitched screams and all that.” I smiled, watching my crimson red painted nails splayed on the glass. There was no possible way to describe the satisfaction of still having perfect nails after a good torture session. “Like I said, it was a good day.”

Nodding jovially, I took a sip of the bourbon, loving the burn in my throat. “Then I went to get ready. You know what happened?” My grin didn’t subside by a bit, as I met each and every gaze.

And found the trembling offender.

My eyes never leaved his, as I downed the rest of the liquid.

Was he trembling before?

I was pretty sure that he was shitting his pants now.

Again, an ego booster.

“My windows fucking exploded. A mini time bomb, seriously? What in the bloody candy crush saga?”

Someone laughed. My eyebrows shot up, as I turned to the person who dared to interrupt me, as the chortle soon enough turned to a series of fake coughs.

A smile lit up my face. “Mr. Macaroni.” Aka the old fucker who didn’t bother to stand up when I entered. What an absolute delight.

“Morroni,” The old fart corrected, feebly.

If I were a better person, I'd feel bad for all his wheezing and my threats on top of that. This fine wine had turned sour and wrinkly. And who knew when a little wheezing or a heart attack

I tilted my head, confused. “Did I not say the same thing, Macaroni?”

The man was frothing at the mouth. “Yes, you did. My mistake. Apologies.”

I nodded, understandingly. “That’s exactly what I thought. Now, stand up and step forward, please.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

It was a fucking order. One he’d better do to follow.

He didn’t move an inch.

I raised an expectant brow. Alright then. My heels clicked smartly against the marble, and it felt as if the room had taken a collective breath. And Macaroni? He jumped up from his seat as if it was on fire and ran to me.

“That’s what I thought.” A half-smirk adorned my lips. “So, you found my windows being blown up funny? Blowing up your brains will be funnier, I can guarantee you that.”

Eyes horrifyingly white, Macaroni shook his head rapidly.

He’s a runner, he’s a trackstar.

“No, because I thought that was the case when your obnoxiously loud chortle interrupted my words.” I almost lazily, drawled out.

No response.

Not that I expected one.

“Do the honors. I’ll give you three seconds.” I took the Glock out of my bra, and wrapped his limp fingers around it. I looked over at the guilty guy responsible for all my fragrance bottles. “You. What’s your name?” I stared into his wide eyes.

A mumble. Alan.

“I’m going to trust you to do something that is very important to me, Alan. Can you do that for me?”

At his assured nod, I smiled. “Count.”

Macaroni made a pathetic whimpering sound, but stood his place.

“O-One.” Alan stuttered.

His fingers hastily wrapped around the cold barrel, as he loaded a bullet.


Face white, he shakily clicked the safety off.

“T-Three,” A whisper.

My left hand wrung on Macaroni’s neck, and I changed his direction of aim, to where Alan stood. His chubby fingers pressed on the trigger, as I took a step back, watching it all unfold in front of me.

The first bullet took Alan by surprise.

He half turned to me— confusion and betrayal clear on his face, and down to the wound in his stomach. Melodramatic, much?

“You really shouldn’t have blown up all my Chanel numbers,” I grinned like a Cheshire cat. "I loved those scents."

The trigger was pressed two more times.

This time, his legs weren’t able to hold him straight. His knees buckled underneath him, as he fell to the ground, eyes wide and unstaring at the ceiling.

“Woah, tiger,” I looked back at Macaroni’s amazed, widened eyes. “I need you for one more thing, don’t go emptying out my bullets just yet,” I admonished, grabbing my pistol off him.

The second he turned to me…

I shot. And shot.

Emptying all of my bullets into his greying, withering body.

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