3rd Movement: Allegro con fuoco | feat. Vito Auditore & Francesca Mancini
“You know, I normally thoroughly enjoy gutting your people... sending your organs off in lovely little formaldehyde-filled jars to your respective family members... to watch them scramble as they try to find out where I’ve hidden you. They truly believe that you’re still alive, but I know you’ve been rotting down here for weeks.... in your case, it’s been much longer, hasn’t it?”
The Russian was more than aware that the woman, confined in her own respective cage was intently listening as well, tears running down her face although she seemed determined to stay silent. As if that would change anything.
The man said nothing, his eyes remained cast down at the floor, his hands shackled to chains, extending from the ceiling of the musty room they had been held in all this time. Locked away... Konstantin’s little playthings.
The eldest Vorshevsky had unbuttoned his dress shirt, not caring about the blood spatter that was staining the crisp white fabric. It was as if each splash of color had its own story: the bunch on his torso from the beating the Italian had taken with the pipe, the blood having been coughed up, no doubt indicating he had punctured a lung; another on his shoulder from the blow he’d dealt to his head, certainly brought on when his victim had mouthed off about something.
“That’s my usual protocol, and I enjoy it,” he stated simply, strolling to the table that held his instruments of torture. “This time, though... I have a better idea,” he noted as his icy eyes trailed over each glimmering object, all of them holding promises of the pain that could be inflicted if they were chosen, as if each was begging to be used. “You see, I’m not taking the blame for your death, as I have the others. No... your death, Vito, is going to be different.”
A simple wave of his had brought in two men from the shadows, both standing erect, waiting for orders. “Shackle his feet to the ceiling,” the Russian said simply, his eyes still dancing over the implements shining before him.
“No.... no! Are you fucking kidding me?” his victim’s protests were futile.
He could hear Francesca’s muffled cries in the corner, although she still believed she was being silent.
“You’ll never get away with this, you bastard!”
Konstantin chose the hunting knife as he turned around, the two men having swung the Italian’s feet over his head, securing them to shackles built into the ceiling. He was suspended, now certainly more uncomfortable than he had been previously, the stress on his breathing something that the Russian was sure he wouldn’t be able to stand for very long.
“But I will, Mister Auditore, because the thing is... I didn’t kill you,” Konstantin said simply, his fingers tracing the blade with ease, a simple shrug as he approached the Italian for the final time. The confusion in Vito’s eyes prompted a smirk to the Russian’s face, his expression all the more eerie as it filled with glee.
“I didn’t kill you,” he repeated, bending down to be closer to the Italian’s head, while he noticed the victim opening his mouth to protest the incorrect statement. Before Vito could rebut, Konstantin sliced the man’s throat, the angle impeccable, the surprised look on his face still present as blood flowed out of the sensitive area freely. “Nicolas St. Clair did.”
The Russian stood quickly, taking a step back as the blood drained from Vito’s body, his attention turning quickly back to the two men that had secured his feet. “Wait until he has no blood left... take the body down, and dump it in the middle of Valence outside a bar, somewhat hidden. Find two of our employees that could pass for Italians.... send them to the bar. When it closes, have them find the body and call the police. When questioned, they are to say that they overheard two French-speaking men outside that arrived in a van, truck... whatever you prefer. They thought it suspicious.”
Konstantin untucked his shirt from his trousers, using the shirt tail to clean the blade with which he’d just killed the Italian. After a moment, he took a step closer to the two men, his expression hard.
“Don’t screw this up, or the two of you will be next,” he said, sternly. And with that he tossed the knife on the table, before proceeding upstairs, not caring that he was tracking the Auditore’s blood as he went.
