by Loki Renard
As his eyes drifted down the body, he became certain that it was Antonio. Antonio’s face bore the worst of the mutilation, but there were parts of his body not so disfigured. The abdominal plane Angelo’s lips had once trailed down was still intact. As were the fingers of Antonio’s left hand, which still bore the ring Angelo had given him, the one that was a promise of not just love, but protection. That protection had utterly failed the boy.
“Mr Vitali?”
“It’s him,” Angelo said. “That’s his ring. My ring. And that’s his… that’s him.”
“Thank you, sir,” the technician said. He made to push the tray back in, but Angelo stopped him, a hand on the man’s arm. The sight was horrific. It was the stuff of the very worst nightmares, and yet, he could not have Antonio taken again. This would be the last time he laid eyes on him. He knew that.
“What… happened to him?”
“The coroner will make a report. There will be an autopsy.”
“But you must know, even… you must…”
“Mr Vitali…” one of the policemen spoke. “We won’t know until the report comes in.”
“I need to know,” Angelo said, his fingers gripping the tray on which Antonio lay. “I must know.”
“It would be best to put him away.” The technician tried to be kind. “Being at room temperature could destroy evidence if certain processes are allowed to continue.”
He meant decomposition. Because the man Angelo had made love to not twelve hours ago was a man no longer. He was charred meat and brittle bone.
“Not yet. I don’t want to leave him yet.”
“Mr Vitali, sir…”
“Not. Yet.” Angelo grit out between his teeth. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes. He could not help them, and he did not try.
If they had been intending on taking him in and questioning him, something seemed to have changed. Perhaps it was the obvious depth of his grief, the utter shock. Angelo didn’t know, and in truth, he did not care. He was guilty. Guilty as sin.
“Please, Mr Vitali,” the technician said, his voice soft.
It was the right approach. Any aggression at all would have set Angelo off, but the calm voice at his elbow gave Angelo some reassurance. A great wrong had been done. A monumental wrong, one which would never, ever be righted. But Antonio was at peace now. And the pain he had felt… Angelo would unleash that a thousand times over before he was done.
Angelo uncurled his fingers, and let the technician return the tray containing what used to be Antonio to the meat locker.
“Be gentle with him,” Angelo said, his voice cracking just the slightest bit as the love of his life was stowed away in preparation for another procedure of plain mutilation.
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
Angelo turned to the police. “What now?”
It was a deeper question than it sounded. What now, that Antonio was gone? What now that the very core of Angelo’s life had been ripped away from him? What now that all he had worked for, all the money he had made suddenly seemed utterly pointless? What. Now.
“It’s our suspicion that this was a hate crime,” the officer said. “We’ll be taking a full report, and we will speak to you again sir. Tonight may not be the time. Do you have someone you can be with?”
“He was the only one.”
7
Present Day
Mark
Mark found himself lying on the floor of Angelo’s study. Angelo was crouched over him, dark eyes focused on him with a calm gaze which never failed to make the hair on the back of Mark’s neck stand erect. There was something about Angelo which was almost unholy and out of this world.
Most men would have gloated over choking him out, or taken the chance to further reinforce their domination with comments of one kind or another. Angelo just offered him a hand and helped him up.
There was a silence, in which Mark felt foolish, and as if he should say something, but what to say?
“You should be nicer to Bobby.” There. Ignore the defeat, focus on the point.
“Nice doesn’t keep people alive.”
Mark let out a sigh. “Jesus, Angelo. Nobody is trying to kill us.”
“Wrong,” Angelo replied. “Someone is always trying. Usually several someones. There are dozens of men who would rejoice at my death, and yours. Never underestimate the evil you can’t see.”
“That’s no excuse to abuse Bobby. If you treat him that way again…”
“What?” Angelo smirked ever so slightly. “You’ll come here again and threaten me again? And then end up unconscious on the floor, again? I suppose the tedium of having to beat you both into submission could become tiresome…”
Mark crossed his arms and looked at Angelo. It was impossible to get through to the man. He just didn’t listen. He was an impenetrable wall of unfeeling certainty which nothing ever seemed to get through.
“I don’t get it. You’re not doing it just to be cruel, are you? Is it really that much fun to destroy the boy over and over again?”
“I don’t do anything just to be cruel. I am cruel because it is effective.”
SMAAAAASSHH CLINK TINKLE TINKLE SMAASHHHH
A loud crashing interrupted Angelo and Mark’s conversation and sent them both sprinting toward the source of the chaos.
A large chandelier had hung in the foyer - until Bobby shot it down with a crossbow. The evidence for the crime was held in Bobby’s hand, and evident in the midst of the shattered crystal glass littering the foyer floor.
“Go fuck yourself, Angelo! I’ll tear this place apart!” Bobby shouted over the balcony, waving the crossbow in both their directions. Mark took cover behind a statue of some old dead guy, in an effort not to become dead himself. Angelo stayed out in the open, fearless as always.
“Bobby…”
The moment Angelo opened his mouth, Bobby discharged the crossbow. This time, the short bolt flew through the air and found a vase standing on a short table. The ceramic dissipated into a cloud of powder and shards.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself.”
“Bobby, you know this won’t end well,” Angelo purred calmly. There was the strangest half-smile on his face, as if he enjoyed this display of wild temper.
“This didn’t begin well. It didn’t middle well. Why the fuck should it end well?” Bobby loaded another bolt and pointed the contraption directly at Angelo. “I should fucking kill you.”
“And you will, one day, boy. Just be sure you can stand on your own two feet before you do.”
Mark shook his head and stepped out behind the statue. This was ridiculous. Angelo and Bobby were both utterly mad in their own ways. This stand off could take a while, and he’d already sacrificed his pride and courage to try and help Bobby out. Bobby didn’t need help. Angelo and Bobby had gotten along together in their brutally chaotic relationship before he was drawn into their madness, and they’d probably still be in it long after he was gone.
Leaving Angelo to talk the little mad man down, Mark slid out from his hiding spot and went to make a sandwich.
8
Angelo
There was something beautiful about the way Bobby stood at the top of the stairs, seething with anger, poised on the point of delivering death. Angelo found himself caught in admiration rather than fear. There was no point to fear. His end would come eventually. The end he deserved. He was crafting it bit by bit now, in the heart and mind of this boy who had come to him on the verge of his own destruction.
He did not taunt Bobby to shoot the arrow pointed at him. Bobby undoubtedly would shoot him if pressed to. He was looking for a reason to do that. Not a logical, reasoned one. An impulsive, rage filled one.
Angelo began to walk toward the stairs.
“Stay back!” There was a note of hysteria in Bobby’s voice. Disappointing. Angelo would have to get him to the point where he didn’t panic at the point of killing. Maybe they should practice it more.
Ignoring Bobby’s near shrieked warning
, he kept going. Casually. Slowly. There was no need to rush this. His calm would become Bobby’s calm. He saw those beautiful dark eyes narrowed at him and he felt pride. This boy was strong. This boy would never be victim to anyone besides him.
He reached the landing, extended his hand toward the crossbow.
“Give it to me.”
There was no anger in his voice, no stress, just pure calm command .
Bobby didn’t give it up, of course.
“Fuck you,” he repeated. “You ever do that to me again I’ll fucking kill you, Angelo. I won’t care what happens afterward.”
Angelo kept his hand extended, waiting for the weapon. There was no discussion to be had on the matter. Bobby’s threats didn’t concern him. He was not going to bargain. He was not going to discuss the matter. He would do in the future just as he did now, whatever he saw fit to do.
“Answer me, Angelo!”
No matter how many weapons he held, Bobby would always sound like a petulant child when speaking that way. There was a dynamic between them which would never change. Angelo was captor, Bobby was captive. One day, Bobby would free himself. But not today.
Angelo waited. He was outwardly calm, though he was keeping a very close eye on the micro-expressions flashing across Bobby’s face. Fear. Contempt. Anger. And then a setting of the jaw and chin, a further narrowing of the eyes. Decision.
Well, well. The boy had more balls than Angelo had credited him with.
Angelo whipped to the side a moment before Bobby’s finger compressed the crossbow trigger. The bolt meant for his belly embedded itself in the wall opposite the stairs, and Angelo’s hand closed around Bobby’s wrist, crushing it hard enough to make the younger man release the weapon.
“Fuck you!” Bobby swore again as the conflict turned brutally physical, a true fight which resulted in them both losing their balance and tumbling down the stairs sideways, rolling over one another, bumping and bruising all the way to the shattered glass below.
Angelo landed atop Bobby in the end, pinning the boy beneath him. They were both bruised. Both hurt. They were both bleeding from grazes and cuts. Both breathing hard. A rough kiss bloomed between them, Angelo’s lips capturing Bobby’s in a lip lock of pure passion.
In the kiss, Bobby relaxed. The tension flowed out of his body and into his cock. Angelo felt Bobby’s erection pressed against his inner thigh. There it was. The heat between them, the love that existed even though it perhaps shouldn’t. The bond that was tested in fire every time they came together. Cut from the same cloth. Made from the same mold. Perhaps it was narcissistic, but it was more than that. It was the understanding that could only take place between two sides of the same coin.
“Bad boy,” Angelo growled against Bobby’s mouth. “You know what happens to bad boys, don’t you?”
“Fuck you,” Bobby moaned back.
What happened next was a foregone conclusion. Their brutal foreplay at an end, their hands tore at one another’s clothing, Angelo’s fly giving way to the rampant rod of his cock. Bobby’s pants were ripped at the seams, his legs pushed back against his belly, his ass exposed. That tight little hole Angelo had fucked just hours earlier still showing traces of lube and cum.
Angelo didn’t waste a moment before plunging inside Bobby, pushing his cock into that tight little hole which gripped him with heat and hot rage.
The glass was all around them, blood smearing marble floor as Angelo fucked Bobby into submission, sinking himself into that rebellious, tight flesh which needed him as much as he needed it. Two sides of the same coin. Cut from the same cloth. Whatever you called it, it was a meeting of dark flesh, a shedding of bright blood.
Dangerous, perhaps, but neither of them cared about the cuts and scrapes they were incurring, Angelo’s cock plunging in and out, over and over, looking for the quick, rough, peak of orgasm.
Bobby’s hands wrapped around his neck, holding and grasping, just holding off choking. There was hatred and love burning in the boy’s gaze. As much as Angelo tried to kill the love in Bobby and in himself, it persisted, a dangerous, dark connection which would have to be broken.
But not today. Today that love had them both in its grasp, a bond which was sick by all accounts, but no less powerful for that fact, a bond which made the tight ring of muscle around Angelo’s cock contract over and over as the boy came closer to his own climax, wailing and writhing in the mess he had made.
Seed roiled in Angelo’s balls, hit the shaft of his cock and burst forth coating the inner walls of the boy’s clenching ass as he roared his triumph, his domination, and his victory. Hot, wet cum joined their stomachs, Bobby’s orgasm coinciding with Angelo’s, both shuddering and grunting and thrusting until finally they collapsed together in the chaos of their making, panting softly.
“Better?”
Angelo looked up to see Mark was standing over them, broom in one hand, sandwich in the other.
“Much.”
“I don’t understand you at all,” Mark sighed. “Bobby tries to get close to you, you throw him into the snow. He tries to kill you and you kiss it all better.”
“You don’t need to understand,” Angelo said, standing, and helping Bobby to do the same.
Bobby was bleeding from a small cut to his forehead, but the anger and the sulking rage had gone, replaced with a broad smile. Mark probably didn’t understand that either, but Angelo did. And that was all that mattered.
9
1983
Angelo
One year on since Antonio’s death, and Angelo had transformed. Three months of pathetic grief had passed in a blur. Another three months of rebuilding all that had fallen apart in his misery. Then six months of vicious focus. He had no interest in relationships. He had no time for other people. All he had was a burning desire for two things, power, and revenge.
The police had never found Antonio’s killer. There were rumors, of course, but nothing substantial enough to press charges. That, Angelo did not mind. Those responsible for Antonio’s death would never see the inside of a cell. Their view would be the interior of a coffin.
In the end, Antonio’s death had been reported as a hate crime. And it was. Just not the hate they thought it was. Antonio hadn’t been attacked by random homophobes. He had been taken by specific homophobes, men who intended to hurt Angelo in a way nothing else could.
It was ironic, in the end, that the vicious nature of the crime pushed Angelo down the list of suspects that he was never charged. Gay haters were everywhere. Dozens of men had been targeted and brutally murdered in the months since. Antonio wasn’t the first. He wouldn’t be the last.
Everyone in the Brooklyn underworld had held its breath and watched in the aftermath, waiting for Angelo’s next move. It hadn’t come. He had gone to work harder and more intensely than before. He had grown his contacts across the city, and the state. And he was readying himself for cold, merciless revenge.
The day Marco ‘Mario’ Gravini went missing was a day like any other. He kissed his wife goodbye, got in his truck, and got on the freeway. What happened after that would become a matter of legend. A story passed on in whispers within the dark circles of a world where crime did pay.
“Hello, Mario.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” The truck swerved between lanes as Angelo sat up from the back seat where he’d been waiting, dressed impeccably in the sort of suit that bankers wore. “What the fuck are you doing here, Angelo?”
The cold barrel of a 9mm gun answered that question, pressed right behind his ear.
“Head to the warehouse district.”
“What the fuck are you doing? I haven’t seen you in years, man!” Mario sounded panicked, as well he might.
“One year,” Angelo said. “One year to the day. It’s your anniversary, Mario.”
“My anniversary? No it ain’t.”
“Oh, but it is. It’s the anniversary of the day you killed Antonio.”
“Fuck off, that wasn’t me.”
/> Angelo made no reply. “Left up here.Then a right.”
“Angelo, I swear to god. It wasn’t me!”
“Take the left, Mario.”
Mario did as he was told, but he didn’t do it quietly. He started babbling up a storm about how he’d had one kid, and another was on the way. Angelo wasn’t listening. His cold, dark eyes were focused on the road ahead. Mario’s life was of no concern to him. Only his death would bring peace.
Every time Mario tried to reason, or argue, or beg, Angelo gave another calm, clear order. Mario followed them, because following was his only option. The man had been gripped by the terror of the truly guilty. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, there was sweat on the back of his neck. He smelled like a pig going to slaughter.
The cliche would have been to take Mario to an abandoned warehouse. They did go to a warehouse, but it wasn’t old or abandoned. It was in frequent use, in fact. On this day, it was empty, and one of the back rooms had been specially prepared for Angelo’s guest. Plastic sheeting hung from the walls and covered the floor. There was a chair in the center of the room, and a table on one side. There were items on that table. Hammers. A battery pack. And a chainsaw.
Mario walked into the room at gun point, sobbing for his life. Angelo secured the doors, made sure they were locked and the key was secured. The tears had no effect on Angelo whatsoever. He was dead to emotion, his, and those of others. He rather regretted that. If he could feel now, he might enjoy this more. Mario’s pain, suffering, death, that was all that was left.
“Did Antonio cry before you killed him, Mario?”
“Shit, Angelo, I didn’t do it, fuck. You gotta believe me!” Big fat tears coursed down the man’s cheeks. There was a spot of jam on his shirt from the last breakfast he’d ever have. How pedestrian and pathetic. Angelo was dressed for the occasion. His shirt was perfectly ironed. His shoes were shined. This was an event to remember.
“I know you did it,” Angelo said, so calmly it was practically conversations. “And I know you weren’t the only one.”