C149 To A Fitting End

The dim light cast a shadow over Tad’s face, highlighting the sharp lines of his features.

He lounged in a worn leather armchair, his fingers lazily swirling a glass of amber liquor.

The smoky scent of cigars lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the weapons displayed on the walls.

His private office was his sanctuary.

He liked to think of it as a den of calculated chaos, where plans were made and lives were unravelled.

When Antonia burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, he lazily raised his eyes to her boobs.

He tilted his head with his lips curling into a smirk.

She was as tightly wound as a spring, her manicured nails tapping against the edge of his desk as if the sound alone could demand his attention.

"Tad," she snapped, her voice sharp but tinged with anxiety. "We have a problem."

He didn’t move, letting her words hang in the air.

Instead, he raised the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, savouring the burn as it slid down his throat. "Do we?" he drawled, finally looking up at her.

Her impatience flared. "Yes, we do! Dante knows. He knows I’ve been trying to get Annabelle out of the way. It’s only a matter of time before he uncovers everything else."

"And?" Tad set the glass down, leaning back in his chair.

His gaze was steady, unbothered, as though she had just mentioned a change in the weather.

Antonia’s eyes narrowed. "And if Dante comes for me, I’ll sing like a bird."

Tad’s smirk faltered for just a moment before it returned...more dangerous now.

He hated being threatened, especially by someone who owed him more than she realised.

But he masked his irritation well, spreading his hands in mock surrender.

"No need to ruffle your feathers, Antonia. I’ll help you. What do you need?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I don’t just want Annabelle gone anymore. Natasha has to go too. That bitch knows things that could implicate me.... and you too, and I can’t have her running her mouth."

Tad raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself.

Natasha wasn’t a name he’d heard often, but if she had dirt on him, that changed things. "Natasha, you say?" he mused. "Got a picture of her?"

Antonia hesitated for a moment before pulling her phone out and showing him an image.

Tad leaned forward, studying the woman’s face.

Her sharp, clever eyes seemed to stare straight through him even in a still image.

She was striking, with a beauty that was more fierce than delicate. He traced his finger over the screen, a twisted smile playing on his lips.

And she was a damn redhead too?

Redheads are said to be feisty, yeah?

Even better.

"I’ll handle it," he said, his tone casual.

Then, just to toy with her, he added, "But you seem tense, Antonia. Maybe I could help... soothe your nerves?"

Antonia’s eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in disgust. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Tad replied, his voice silkier now, his grin widening. "We’ve been working so well together. I thought..."

The slap came before he could finish his sentence, the sharp sting spreading across his cheek.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

But inside, his blood boiled.

"Keep your filthy hands to yourself," Antonia spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "Save it for filth like Annabelle."

Tad’s jaw tightened, but he forced a placating smile. "Apologies, Antonia. That was out of line. It won’t happen again."

"It better not," she snapped, her eyes blazing. "The only reason I’m even here is because of Dante."

She stormed out, her heels clicking furiously against the floor.

Tad waited until the door slammed shut behind her before his grin twisted into something far darker.

"You are going to pay, bitch," he muttered, his voice low and venomous. "Oh, you are going to pay real good for that."

Turning back to his desk, Tad pulled up Natasha’s files on his laptop.

The image of her face filled the screen, her determined gaze almost mocking him.

She was an orphan, he read.

Raised in a system that spat out broken children, she had somehow emerged whole.

Or at least tougher than most.

She’d avoided the traps that claimed so many like her, carving out her own path on the streets.

A flicker of admiration stirred in him.

She reminded him of himself in some ways.

But admiration didn’t change the facts. Natasha was a threat, and threats had to be eliminated.

As he scrolled through her records, his mind filled with images of what he would do.

He didn’t just want her gone.

He wanted to savour it.

The thrill of the hunt.

The satisfaction of watching her eyes widen in realisation.

It was intoxicating.

"Your turn to die," he murmured, tracing her image on the screen with a finger. "And this time, I’ll do the honors."

The memories of his past exploits surfaced, vivid and visceral.

He remembered the way that old man's blood had sprayed across the dirt on his ranch, the gurgling sound as life drained from his body.

It had been a work of art, each strike calculated for maximum effect.

Natasha would be no different.

He closed the laptop and leaned back, the anticipation making his skin prickle.

Sending others to do his dirty work had its perks, but nothing compared to the thrill of doing it himself.

"Let’s see how tough you really are, Natasha," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty room. "I’ll make it memorable."

The thought of her defiance and her anticipated fight sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

He poured himself another drink, raising the glass in a mock toast to the image burnt into his mind.

"To the hunt," he said, his grin widening. "And to a fitting end.”