The Wicked Alpha

They say time numbs pain.

That grief fades. That with some time, the past releases its grip.

They lie.

Ten years, and the pain has not dulled, instead, it has sliced more deeply. It has transformed into something else.

Thirst for Revenge.

I ghost hunted for years, shadow chased, after the men who took my parents away from me. I wanted their names. I wanted their faces. And sought them for years and when I found them, I did not just kill them instead I made them feel immense pain.

They thought they were above the law, deep beyond the reaches of the government . They did not expect me. They did not expect what I would do to make them talk.

I tortured them for days. I cut open their skin, crushed their bones. Deriving joy from their muffled screams in the darkness of my cell.

But no matter what I did to them, they didn’t give anything. Even when I wrung the knife deeper, even when I cut my rage into their flesh, they never spoke.

It was not fear that silenced them,

It was something greater than myself. Something beyond my understanding.

Maybe it was because I was a woman.

Maybe they thought I lacked the brutality to break them. That I wasn’t scary enough. That I would stop before things got too far.

They were wrong.

I turned my head slightly, my voice even. “Vito, get me my lipstick,the deep maroon one”

Vito, my right hand, nodded without question. He knew me well enough by now. When I asked for my lipstick, it meant the fun was about to begin.

A moment later, the sleek black tube was in my hand. I twisted the base, watching as the deep maroon emerged. Slowly, methodically, I applied it to my lips, taking my time. Letting them watch.

The two men I'd been torturing for days sat in their chairs, bound with thick rope, their faces swollen and bleeding. They were drenched in sweat, mixed with the dirt of the dark, damp prison cell. The stench of blood and terror clung to the air.

I went to the first man, the weaker one, the one whose whimpers had filled the room for the past two days.

He did not glance at me. Coward!

With dramatic caution, I leaned forward, my lips grazing his cheek as I kissed him. Then another on the other cheek. And then one on his forehead.

A blessing. A farewell.

I inhaled and took a step back, cocking my head to look at what I'd created. Red lipstick stained his sweaty, pale face.

Then I pulled out my gun.

The second man, the one with the smart mouth tensed, his bruised eyes opening another fraction of an inch, but he didn't speak.

I sighed, allowing the silence to fill the cold room.

BANG.

The head of the first man snapped back, blood splattering on the wall behind him. His body convulsed once, then fell forward. Dead.

A strangled sound ripped from the throat of the second man. His whole body shook, his breathing in rapid, shallow gasps. He hadn't seen it coming. Good, just what I wanted.

I looked at him, wiping down my gun with a cloth. His eyes darted from the freshly dead body beside him to me, alarm beginning to creep into his stare.

"Vito," I drawled, nodding toward a chair. He dragged it over, screeching the stone floor beneath the legs.

I sat back in my chair, uncrossing my legs and then crossing one on top of the other, completely unmoved by the pool of blood at my feet.

"Start talking," I whispered.

He swallowed hard but remained silent.

I sighed. “You’re making this very difficult for yourself.”

Tears leaked from his eyes, but he gritted his teeth, shaking his head stubbornly.

I leaned forward, studying him. His body was trembling, his fingers twitching against the ropes binding him. He was scared, terrified even, but he was holding on to something stronger than the fear of death.

Loyalty. Or perhaps, fear of someone else.

"Is that the best you've got?" His voice was croaky, weak. "Why don't you shoot me in the head like you shot my friend?"

I smiled, twirling the gun around my hand. "You want to die?"

He gritted his teeth, his lips pressed together.

I sighed and stood up, using my foot to push my chair back. His body became rigid as I drew near. He tried not to flinch when I knelt down and did the same thing all over again. A peck on both cheeks, then one on his forehead.

His breath stopped. I could feel the war going on inside him.

"Don't do it," he whispered, his throat raw.

I turned away from him, retreating a step and holding the gun against his chest, just below his heart. "Last chance."

He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth pressed into a tight line.

I touched the trigger. And then…

"Lombardi!" His name burst from his lips, like a wail of despair. "Vincenzo Lombardi! He sent us to do his dirty work. Please, please don't kill me. I can help you. I can help you get rid of him."

My finger lay poised on the trigger.

Vincenzo Lombardi. At last.

The name settled into my bones like ice, cold and chilling. It was the truth I had been searching for. The specter I had been chasing.

Lowering my gun, I tilted my head, studying the man before me. His breathing was ragged, his shoulders heaving with relief, as if he actually believed his life was important to me now.

Fool. I let the silence hang, watched hope kindle in his weary eyes.

Then I smiled. "Fine then," I whispered. "There it is. Finally, a name."

He nodded frantically, his bruised lips parting to shape more words, maybe to beg, maybe to bargain.

Then in one swift motion, I pulled the trigger.

His body jerked in pain as the bullet tore through his head, spattering the floor with his blood.

I let go of my gun, slowly breathing out as I watched him drop beside his friend.

The air stank of gunpowder and death.

I wiped my hands clean, my movements slow and deliberate. The rage inside me had not been extinguished, it had only been fueled.

I turned to Vito. “We have a name.”

He gave a slow nod, eyes dark with understanding. “What’s the plan?”

A smile curled at the edges of my lips.

“We’re going to tear him apart.”