The silence in the room stretched thin, like a rubber band about to snap.
Vargas blinked. He looked at the man in the chair—the accountant, the sheep—and felt a prickle of unease crawl up his thick neck. The face was the same, but the geometry had changed. The slump was gone. The trembling was gone.
"Sanitation?" Tony scoffed, stepping away from the wall. "Kid's got jokes now."
Tony reached out. It was a lazy, arrogant grab, intended to bunch up the front of Arvin's shirt and drag him across the desk.
Dante didn't stand up. He didn't block.
He waited until Tony's hand was six inches away.
Then, he moved.
It was a blur of motion too fast for the heavy air of the room. Dante's left hand shot up, clamping onto Tony's wrist. His right hand grabbed Tony's pinky and ring finger.
He didn't pull. He twisted. Hard.
Snap.
The sound was wet and sharp, like stepping on a dry branch.
Tony screamed—a high, breathless shriek—as his fingers were bent backward against the joint until they touched his wrist.
Dante didn't stop. He used the grip on the broken hand to yank Tony down, slamming the man's face into the corner of the heavy oak desk.
Crunch.
Tony dropped like a stone, blood instantly pooling on the Persian rug.
"What the—" The Driver by the door shouted, his hand diving inside his jacket.
Dante was already moving. He kicked the heavy wooden chair he had been sitting on. It skid across the floor and slammed into the Driver's shins just as the Glock cleared the holster.
The Driver stumbled, the gun firing wild.
BANG.
The shot blew a hole in the ceiling, plaster raining down like snow. The noise in the soundproofed room was deafening.
Vargas roared, fumbling with the heavy revolver on his desk. His fingers were greasy from the steak; he slipped on the hammer.
Dante didn't look at Vargas. He vaulted over the desk, ignoring the papers and the half-eaten dinner. He landed in front of the Driver before the man could regain his balance.
The Driver tried to bring the Glock up.
Dante stepped inside the guard. He drove his elbow into the man's throat.
The Driver gagged, his eyes bulging. The gun clattered to the floor.
Dante grabbed the man's hair with one hand and his belt with the other. He spun him around and rammed him face-first into the wall. The Driver slid down the plaster, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Three seconds.
That's all it had taken. Two men down.
Dante turned slowly to face the desk.
Vargas was standing now, the revolver raised. His hands were shaking. The confidence of the crime lord had evaporated, replaced by the primal fear of a prey animal staring at a wolf.
"Stay back!" Vargas shouted, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'll blow your head off!"
Dante tilted his head. He looked at the gun, then at Vargas's finger on the trigger.
"Double-action revolver," Dante said calmly, stepping over Tony's groaning body. "Heavy trigger pull. You're shaking. At this distance, you'll likely pull the shot to the right and hit the bookshelf."
"Shut up!" Vargas screamed. He squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The bullet shattered a vase on the shelf to Dante's left.
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He kept walking, his steps measured, quiet.
"Told you," Dante said.
Vargas cocked the hammer again, panic making him clumsy.
Dante closed the distance. He didn't run. He walked right up to the barrel of the gun.
Vargas froze. The "Demon" was standing six inches away. He could see the pupils—black voids that swallowed the light.
"Who are you?" Vargas whispered, his voice trembling.
Dante reached out. He gently placed his hand over the barrel of the revolver and pushed it down. Vargas was too terrified to resist.
"Arvin is the one who pays his taxes," Dante said softly. "Arvin is the one who donates to the cat shelter."
Dante grabbed Vargas's tie. He pulled the big man down until they were nose-to-nose.
"I'm the tax collector."
Dante grabbed a steak knife from the plate on the desk.
Vargas opened his mouth to scream.
Dante drove the knife into the side of Vargas's neck. One clean, surgical thrust. He severed the carotid artery.
Vargas eyes went wide. He made a wet, gurgling sound. He slumped back into his leather chair, clutching his neck, blood spurting between his fingers like a rhythmic fountain.
Dante watched him die. He checked his watch.
Heart rate: 85 beats per minute. Acceptable.
He looked down at his shirt. A few drops of blood on the cuff.
Arvin is going to be upset about the dry cleaning, Dante thought annoyed.
He picked up the napkin from the desk and wiped the handle of the knife. He wiped the revolver.
He walked over to the Driver, checked his pulse (alive, unfortunately), and took the Glock. He stripped the slide, removed the firing pin, and dropped the pieces into a potted plant.
He stepped over Tony, who was whimpering in a pool of his own blood.
Leave them, Dante decided. Let them tell the story.
Dante stood at the heavy oak door. He took a breath, adjusting his collar to cover the blood speck.
He didn't have a gun (he had dismantled the Glock). He didn't have the knife (he left it in Vargas).
He had something better: Arvin's face.
Dante slumped his shoulders. He widened his eyes. He made his hands tremble. He shed the predator skin and put the sheep mask back on.
He threw the door open, stumbling into the hallway, gasping for air.
"Help!" Dante screamed—using Arvin's high, panicked pitch. "He's choking! The steak! He's choking!"
The two massive bouncers turned, startled. They saw a terrified, weeping office worker pointing back into the room.
"What?" The guard on the left grunted.
"Vargas! He can't breathe! Help him!" Dante grabbed the guard's jacket, pulling him toward the door. "Please!"
The guards didn't see a threat. They saw a panic attack in a cheap suit.
Instinct took over. The guard on the left rushed past Dante into the room. The guard on the right hesitated, looking at Dante, then followed his partner.
"Boss?" the first guard yelled, stepping into the office.
He saw the blood. He saw Vargas slumped in the chair. He saw the bodies.
"What the f—"
The guard reached for his gun.
He was too late.
Dante didn't run. As soon as the second guard stepped past him, Dante slammed the heavy oak door shut with all his strength.
THUD.
He grabbed the key from the outside lock (Vargas liked privacy) and turned it.
Click.
From inside, a muffled roar of rage erupted. Then, the sound of a heavy body slamming against the wood.
THUMP.
"Open the door!"
Dante ignored them. The room was soundproofed. The music in the hallway was loud. Let them scream. By the time they shot the lock off, he would be gone.
Dante smoothed his hair back. He walked down the hallway, blending into the rhythm of the bass. He walked past the bar, past the strippers, and out the back exit into the cool night air.
"Too easy," Dante whispered.
Then, the adrenaline crash hit. The body—Arvin's weak, untrained body—buckled.
Dante stumbled toward a dumpster in the alleyway, his vision blurring as the energy left him. The switch was coming.
"Wake up, Arvin," Dante muttered, collapsing into the shadows. "It's your turn to take out the trash."
2:00 AM
Arvin woke up in a dumpster.
He gasped, scrambling backward, his hands sinking into bags of wet trash. The smell of rotting vegetables and coffee grounds assaulted his nose.
"No, no, no..."
He clawed his way out, falling onto the wet pavement of an alleyway he didn't recognize.
He patted his chest. He was wearing his work clothes. His shirt was torn at the collar. There was a dark stain on his left cuff that looked like wine.
Or blood.
Arvin scrambled to his feet, checking his pockets. His phone and wallet were back.
He unlocked his phone with shaking fingers.
2:14 AM.
Location: 12th Street. Five miles from The Blue Velvet.
Arvin leaned against the brick wall and vomited.
He remembered the car ride. He remembered the office. He remembered the gun.
And then... nothing.
"What did you do?" Arvin sobbed, wiping his mouth. "Dante, what did you do?"
I survived, the voice answered. It sounded tired. Go home, Arvin. Walk fast.
Arvin looked at his hands. They were clean. Too clean. They smelled of industrial soap.
He started to walk, hugging himself against the cold, while the sirens wailed in the distance, heading toward the docks.