Chapter 7 Polished Fury

• “If you weren’t one of my best, I would have sent your brain smearing the floor,” he hissed amidst clenched teeth, tearing the gun from his forehead.
• “Tell me,” he swung round, throwing his hands up as if trying to demonstrate. “Why did I spend so much money giving you a hardcore training only for you to buy me more time of insults just because a little girl bit you? Just because you could not stand a little bite. What sort of bite was that? Is she a shark?” Horace’s rage blazed. “You don’t bruise a woman’s face; her face is her selling point. Am I to send you for training for this, too?
• “You, Logan, you are particularly too careless than is necessary for this job. You know that.” He looked at him sternly. “And this is the last time, the last time I will entertain a slip from you.”
• He turned away and hurled the gun back at him, cursing under his breath. Logan caught it with high precision and holstered it in a second, flaunting one of the skills that got him spared.
• Horace sat on the sofa, flexing his bloodied knuckles, allowing his breath to slow. He lit a cigar and puffed. Dimitri’s words still echoed in his head, a wound to his pride deeper than any cut. Horace hated threats.
• He pulled out his phone and dialed.
• The line clicked after a few rings.
• “Doctor Eddie,” Horace barked, voice sharp as broken glass. “The girl. Her wound—how long?”
• There was a pause, then the doctor’s careful reply: “It’s deep, sir. She needs time for the tissue to close. With proper care, a couple of weeks. Maybe—”
• “A couple of weeks?” Horace’s shout cracked like thunder through the room. His bodyguards flinched, though they kept their eyes trained forward. Horace slammed his fist into the stool beside his leg, the wood groaning under the blow.
• “I don’t have weeks!” he snarled into the phone. “Do you know what’s breathing down my neck right now? Do you know the insult I just swallowed from Klavitz? And you tell me I have to wait a month while he mocks me at his leisure?”
• The doctor’s voice was cautious, almost pleading. “I’m doing everything possible, Mr. Horace. But the body heals at its own pace. Forcing it could cause complications…”
• “Complications?” Horace’s laugh was hollow, violent. “The only complication is if I walk into another meeting with Dimitri empty-handed. That man thinks he can threaten me, embarrass me in public. And now…” His voice dipped into a growl. “Now I can’t even hand him what I promised. Nobody should dare make me look weak.”
• The silence that followed was heavier than stone. Horace’s grip tightened on the phone.
• “You fix her,” he said at last, his tone low and lethal. “You cut her open, stitch her, burn her, I don’t care. Just make her ready before a month. Do you hear me?”
• “Yes, sir,” the doctor said quickly.
• Horace ended the call with a vicious tap and hurled the phone onto the sofa. His chest rose and fell with savage rhythm, his eyes bloodshot with fury as he continued puffing.
• “Another month…” he muttered. “I won’t last another month with Dimitri breathing down my neck.” He turned to his men, expression cold as steel. “If that girl isn’t ready before he loses patience, then it won’t just be Dimitri’s blood on my hands.”
• Dimitri Klavitz had disrespected him, dared to threaten him. And Horace would rather burn the city than let that stand for another thirty days.
• Horace puffed for a long moment, chest rising and falling like a war drum. He picked up his phone again, wiped the blood from the screen with his sleeve, and scrolled until he found the number he wanted. He pressed call.
• A voice answered almost immediately, rough and alert. “Boss.”
• Horace’s tone was quieter now, but edged with steel. “How is she?”
• There was a pause on the line, then the guard replied, “The girl’s stable. The doctor has tended the wound and dropped some pills for her. Said she should eat and rest well, but she has refused to eat. Other than that, she is good.”
• Horace closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. His knuckles ached, the sting of split skin reminding him of Dimitri’s smirk. “Good, but make her eat. However, you want to do it, make her eat,” he muttered.
• Then louder, firmer: “Darren, I chose you for this because you’re more disciplined. And I know you will not fail me. Inasmuch as I don’t want her skin blemished, if she causes trouble…” The pause was deliberate, heavy. “Remind her who holds the knife. Do you understand?” Something in his tone made Darren’s stomach knot.
• “Yes, Boss”
• “Well, I’m sure you can handle this better. Will be sending you supplies.”
• “Okay.”
• Horace took a puff.
• “Darren, this job is highly important to me,” Horace said finally. “I need her healed as soon as possible,” Horace said, voice tightening with each word.
• “Yes, Boss.”
• Horace pinched the bridge of his nose, the anger settling into a cold resolve. “Good. Keep her safe. Feed her. Guard her like she’s worth your life, because right now, she is.”
• “Yes, Boss.”
• Horace ended the call and let the phone hang in his hand, his reflection catching dimly in the black screen. His chest felt tight, but his voice, when he finally spoke to the room, was calm.
• “She will heal,” he said, more to himself than his men. “And when she does, Dimitri Klavitz will learn I don’t take kindly to disrespect.”
• The guards exchanged glances but said nothing. Horace stood up, took some quick puffs, flexing his bleeding knuckles. Then, he gave the cigar to the man closest to him; he knew what to do with it, while he slowly and deliberately straightened his jacket, smoothing out every wrinkle until he looked flawless again.
• “Enough,” he murmured, as if commanding his own fury back into its cage.
• Opening the door, Horace stepped back toward the noise of the gala. His smile had returned—cold, refined, and dangerous. His guards fell into formation behind him.
• ***************
• The stew had gone cold where it sat untouched on the tray. She hadn’t had any appetite since she was taken. Grief had eaten up her humanity. She had slept off the previous night after attacking Darren and had not stirred until now, forced awake by a bad dream. It was mid-morning.
• Gradually, her attention was drawn to low grunts, sharp exhales, rhythmic thud of fists cutting through the air.
• She blinked, lifting her head from the pillow. Then came another sound, metal clinking, controlled breaths, the low grunt of exertion. She listened.
• The noises came steady, from behind the cabin, controlled, alive with discipline.
• Darren.
• Oh!
• The realization almost pissed her off. He was preparing to gift her another ugly day.
• Stupid!
• She ignored it and curled in the corner of the cot, her arms wrapped around her knees.
• Then, tears started, silent sobs shaking her frame.
• The steel door opened much later with its usual groan.
• Darren stepped inside with a paper bag and another tray, pausing when his gaze fell on the untouched tray on the coffee table. Then his eyes shifted to her: small, crumpled, not the fiery girl who had kicked food from his hands hours earlier.
• He shut the door softly behind him. For a long moment, neither spoke.
• Nina didn’t look up. She wanted him to see her broken, but not destroyed. The tears were real, for her parents, for her brother, but behind them, her mind ticked, calculating. Vulnerability could be its own weapon.