The Foiled Plan (War of Sins Book 2)
The Foiled Plan: Chapter 36

On his way out, he didn’t dare look at his pet again. She didn’t attempt to look back either. He simply exited the room and waited for the procedure to be done.

Alone in the darkened corridor, his mind was still reeling from what he’d seen and heard. He could tell he was softening, his conviction swaying—even if it was for a minuscule fraction.

He recognized the part of himself he’d long buried trying to claw its way back to the surface—trying to tell him he was doing this all wrong.

That tiny voice he’d long thought extinguished whispered things, dangerous, dangerous things.

Give up your revenge for her.

Treat her like the treasure she is.

Keep her…

Michele’s hands were balled into fists as he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing harshly as he focused on the past—on everything that had made him the person he was today.

This wasn’t just his revenge. This was for everyone who’d been taken from him, those whose deaths, just like their previous existences, were imprinted on his very soul—or what was left of it.

To give everything up would be to make a mockery of everything he’d held dear.

No, he couldn’t do that. He could never allow himself to be swayed.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he called his house staff, instructing them to prepare something that was bound to give him the desired effect. Something that would cut his ties to his pet forever.

An hour went by, and then two. When his pet was finally led out of the room in a wheelchair, he felt a heaviness settle in his chest like never before.

It was done.

Dr. Ryan came out with her, handing him a small medicine pouch.

‘She needs to take antibiotics to prevent an infection.’

He nodded, sparing his pet a glance and feeling his ribcage tighten with an elusive emotion. Fear? Anticipation? He couldn’t tell.

Addressing the doctor, he exchanged a few words with her, making his voice purposefully loud so his pet would hear his words, priming her for what was to come.

He emphasized the term evidence, sneaking a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Yet she didn’t react. She never did. She was merely staring blankly in front of her.

And as he led her to the car, he was truly surprised at the deafening silence. She wasn’t talking—barely even breathing.

‘How are you feeling, pet?’ he asked as he helped her in the passenger seat.

She shrugged, her eyes set forward. She wasn’t looking at him.

‘We have one more hour before you’re due at home. Let’s get you some food,’ he told her in an affectionate tone, hoping it would snap her out of her stupor.

She nodded. Yet she didn’t say anything more.

For the entire duration of the journey to his place, she didn’t look at him. She didn’t talk to him. She just ignored him.

He felt his ire mounting, and it exploded when he tried to help her to the elevator, only to have her flinch at his touch.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he snapped, glaring at her.

She barely moved. But slowly, she raised her chin, gazing at him for the first time since he’d left her in that consultation room.

There was no trace of warmth on her face.

Nothing.

It was like his pet was no longer—no longer his.

The more he stared at her, the more he saw the differences. Her face was sallow. Her eyes, which usually glowed with happiness and the power of her worship, were now bleak.

Bleak.

‘Nothing,’ she replied, her voice devoid of any feeling.

She looked at him as if he didn’t exist. As if he was nothing to her.

‘It was for the best, pet,’ he told her, for her benefit or his own, he wasn’t sure. ‘You love me, don’t you?’ he felt compelled to ask—needed to hear her say the words.

He yearned for those three words more than anything in the world, and for a brief second as she paused at his question, he felt his heart in his throat as he waited.

‘Of course I love you,’ she murmured, yet the words were mechanical—nothing like they’d once been. ‘But I hate you more,’ she raised her eyes to his. Her gaze was unflinching, and for the first time, he truly saw it.

The hate eclipsed the love.

He’d done that. He’d killed it. He’d finally killed her love.

Sick laughter bubbled inside his throat at the realization, and as he put a hand around his midriff, he started laughing mechanically—maniacally.

Even as the doors to his penthouse opened, he could not stop laughing.

He laughed until his belly hurt and his heart ached.

He’d done it. He’d fucking done that with his own hands.

And he didn’t know whether to be mad or proud.

Taking a step inside his house, he was struck by something extraordinary. The world wasn’t just bleak—it was colorless.

He blinked, looking around from side to side. Yet he couldn’t see color. He couldn’t see anything but black and white, with shades of gray nestled in between.

His gaze found her, and right before his eyes, he could see her colors shifting. Her hair wasn’t a lively mahogany color anymore, slowly losing all its luster as it became gray and tepid. Color was trickling out of her face, and even the eyes he’d once thought the most beautiful in the world were now a muddy nondescript color.

He froze.

What the fuck was happening?

He was going crazy. The thought briefly crossed his mind. But it wasn’t him that was losing it. It couldn’t be him.

It was her.

Her with her icy stare and colorless countenance. Her with the lack of smiles and twinkling eyes. Her with the words of hate instead of love.

At that moment, he hated her too. He hated her more than anything in the world.

Because she was shutting him out when he wanted nothing else but take her in his arms and hear her eternal avowals of love.

Yet she wasn’t giving him any. She was quietly sitting by the side, staring into empty space as if he wasn’t there. As if he didn’t exist, or he wasn’t worthy of her notice.

By God, he hated her.

He hated her but he wanted her.

He hated that she was depriving him of her smiles. He hated that she was ignoring him. But most of all, he hated the extinguished light in her eyes. She no longer looked at him like he could give her the sun and the moon. There was no more worship to be found in her eyes.

None.

And for that, he wanted to hurt her.

Something insidious took shape inside of him. A demon that would not be satisfied until it tasted blood.

Blood and tears.

‘Let’s go,’ he told her, his expression tight. And as he led her to the dining room, motioning her to take a seat, he could do nothing else but observe her.

His pet was gone.

In one last attempt to salvage things, he uttered a challenge.

‘I’ll marry you,’ he told her, watching her closely. He expected to see her joy. Her light returning to her features at knowing that now he would have her. He wanted to see her adoration again.

He wanted her love, not her hate.

Yet the realization came too late.

For the first time in his life, Michele admitted to himself that he’d been wrong.

He’d pushed and pushed, but it wasn’t her who’d fallen. It was him.

Her lashes fluttered, but it wasn’t in her usual lovable way. She merely shrugged.

‘If you want,’ she said, her gaze snapping back to the table as she proceeded to ignore him again.

His fists clenched, he studied her and could not believe this was the same person who’d been ready to die for him. Where was that loyalty? Where was that love?

If she could shrug it off so easily, then it must have never existed in the first place.

The more he dwelled on the issue, the angrier he became, a need to hurt her eating at him. He wanted to make her bleed as much as he was.

Maybe his wounds were not visible, but he could feel the blood trickling on the inside. He could feel the ache deep within him, and for that, she needed to pay.

They stood in silence, her ignoring him, and him seething quietly at her.

A while later, one of his men came with a tray, placing a lidded plate in front of her, and one in front of him.

He could have dropped his plan—that monstrous show he’d concocted. He already had her where he wanted, didn’t he? He had her hate, the ultimate indifference.

But that was the problem.

She might be gone, but he wasn’t. No, he was still there, his weakness glaring in the open for everyone to see—for everyone to take advantage of.

That emotion he’d purposefully instilled in her bothered him on an atomic level. As self-awareness crept in, he realized something—something that made him push through with his plan and become the ultimate bastard in her eyes.

She wasn’t the problem.

He was.

He hated her hate. Just as he felt something else for her. Something…

‘Eat, pet. Then I’ll take you home,’ he gritted his teeth, wanting to see her gone, but wanting to see her stay at the same time.

Taking the lid off her plate, she wrinkled her nose as she assessed the contents.

‘What is it?’ She asked, swirling the spoon around the liquid.

‘It’s a coveted delicacy, or so I’m told,’ he gave her one of his dazzling smiles.

He wanted to see her squirm and hurt. He needed her to suffer, for she deserved nothing less for making him feel this way—for touching that one part of himself he’d thought untouchable. And he deserved nothing more for failing at his revenge as he had.

Frowning, she brought the spoon to her lips, taking a sip.

He watched intently, his eyes boring into her.

‘How is it?’ he inquired.

‘Good,’ she shrugged. He knew she wasn’t fussy about food, eating everything and anything. But this was different. It wasn’t for her to enjoy.

With a strained smile, he added, ‘Is that so?’

‘What is…’ She was about to repeat her question, but the words died on her lips as she took a closer look at her plate.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted in horror.

Lifting her spoon, she fished a small, barely developed leg out of the soup, regarding it for a second before flinging the utensil aside.

‘Tell me it’s not,’ she whispered, her features pained.

‘Oh, but it is. I wanted you to still have it, pet. See, I only think about your wellbeing,’ he drawled, leaning back and watching the spectacle.

Even for him this was extreme, and he couldn’t help the distaste that assailed him. But he masked it with amused indifference.

Her hands trembled as she pushed her chair back, stumbling to the ground.

Tears on her face, she finally turned to him.

‘How could you?’ she asked in a small voice.

He felt a pang in his heart. But it wasn’t enough to stop it. Everything had been set in motion, and he knew this was the last time he’d ever enjoy his pet.

‘How could I?’ he repeated the question as he got to his feet, towering over her and regarding her with a mocking smile. ‘Simple, pet,’ he said as his fingers wrapped around her throat, bringing her into him until their lips were mere inches apart, their breaths mingling. Hers labored from fear, his excited from her fear. ‘You hate me already, so what’s another push? Detest me. Abhor me,’ he ordered, his voice biting.

‘You’re a monster,’ she uttered the words, ending him forever.

‘Monster,’ he laughed. ‘Yes. I’m a monster. I’ve always been a monster,’ he sneered at her. ‘Good on you to finally notice.’

‘Let go of me,’ she whimpered.

‘Why? What’s wrong, pet? Until a few hours ago you loved my hands on you. You loved my cock inside of you.’

She shook her head, her lips trembling as she sought to get away from her.

‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered. ‘I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,’ she uttered continuously, not even deigning to look him in the eye.

The words burned him, and without even realizing, he flung her away from him.

‘Get the fuck out,’ he bit out. ‘Get out and don’t let me ever see you again!’

She raised her head to look at him. Her face was pale, her eyes lost. He thought he spotted a glimmer of something before harshness took over her features.

Getting to her feet, she smoothed down her skirt with quiet dignity before straightening her back in a gesture of rebellion. And giving him one last look, she was gone.

At that moment, his pet ceased to be his.

He was never drunk.

From the first time he’d imbibed alcohol, Michele had known his limit and he’d never crossed it. After all, his worst nightmare was not having any control over his body.

Yet what was he doing now?

Staring at the blinding city lights, his mind was slipping from him, his control waning.

One glance to the side revealed an almost empty bottle of whiskey and two empty packs of cigarettes.

Still, he opened the third, popping one into his mouth and waiting for the deadly combo of nicotine and alcohol to kick in.

Numb.

He wanted to be numb.

Yet no matter how much shit he poured into his body, nothing helped.

‘You called, sir?’ Andreas spoke from behind him.

Slowly, he advanced until he reached his side, gazing down at him with worry in his eyes.

If only…

But she was gone. His pet was gone.

He knew it was for the best. He’d finally severed the only ties that were holding him back, and he was about to reap the benefits from that.

‘Is it done?’ he slurred his words as he blinked some clarity in his eyes.

‘It is. It’s already on the news.’

‘Play it for me,’ he motioned lazily towards the huge TV hanging on the wall.

‘As you wish, sir,’ Andreas nodded, grabbing the remote control and turning the TV to the local news station.

‘The head of one of the most influential New York families was arrested today at noon on sexual assault charges. Marcello Lastra, formerly known as Marcel Lester, was a close colleague of the D.A. and worked as a public attorney for over ten years. The entire legal community is aghast at the charges brought against him. Though he has refused to comment on the issue, sources say that the police received incriminating video material from over a decade ago that depicts Mr. Lastra as a perpetuator of rape…’

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the air of victory.

‘What about the business?’

‘Three of his shell companies have already been hit. The other two are scrambling. Their assets should diminish slowly until they will be in the red. Until they will owe you everything.’

‘Good,’ he nodded, stumbling to his alcohol cabinet and grabbing another bottle.

His sire had been a conniving bastard, and he’d kept incriminating material on everyone in his circle. It hadn’t been hard to replace out what he had on Lastra, more so considering it was a brutal rape perpetuated against his own wife.

Laughter bubbled in Michele’s throat at the irony. He wondered how his wife could have stayed with someone like that.

But it wasn’t his business.

On all accounts, his job was almost done.

‘What about the other bit?’

‘The video is circulating on the internet as we speak. Already, people have identified her and shared it further. There are a lot of malicious comments though…’

‘You can go,’ Michele burst out, not wanting to hear more.

‘Of course,’ Andreas nodded.

And as he got out, Michele slumped on his couch, bottle in one hand, remote control in the other as he played the video.

She was on her knees, her head bobbing back and forth as she choked on his cock until tears stabbed at the corner of her eyes.

He’d thrust the camera in her face, recording every bit of humiliation he could, knowing at some point he would have use for it.

She was still gazing at him with love back then.

And as he looked at her adoring eyes, and the way she sought to please him even in the most extreme ways, he felt his chest constrict.

His dick was painfully hard, as it always was when he looked at her. And for the first time, he took himself in hand.

Eyes set on the TV as he followed the way her lips wrapped around his cock, he attempted to replicate it with his hand. Led by the sounds of her sloppy blowjob, he spit in his hand as he gripped his length harder.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was her.

Alas, it wasn’t.

His mind knew it. His hand knew it. His fucking cock knew it, and in no time he lost his erection.

‘Damn it,’ he cursed out loud, zipping himself back up.

It wasn’t working.

Nothing was working.

And it was all her fault.

If before she’d been a social pariah, he imagined now she’d be the butt of jokes. He’d made sure of that when he’d released all the videos he’d filmed of her on her knees, sucking him off like a trained hooker.

He wanted her to suffer, yet deep down he also wanted to save her.

Scowling, he thrust all thoughts of her out of his mind. This wasn’t him—this was nothing like him—and he needed to remember that.

To aid his detachment, he withdrew his worn wallet, perusing the precious picture nestled within. From the beginning, he’d had a purpose—a promise to those he’d loved and lost. It was high time he remembered why he was doing everything.

Michele Guerra was dead—had died a long time ago. A dead man could not have feelings, wants, or needs. No, a dead man was dead and bringing only death.

Now, only vengeance steeped in blood remained.

And this was just the first step.

Marcello Lastra would remain with nothing.

No family. No money. No dignity.

Nothing.

Then the road would be clear for phase two—the mass destruction.