Gehenna's Rogue Gallery: Vitale Vittore

'The worst guilt is to accept an unearned guilt'

~Ayn Rand~

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“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…”

Each time that number goes a little higher I can feel the bump in Sol’s smugness. We’d been planning this heist for about a week straight, all three of us. Beside me, Ricardo is celebrating with one of his special cigars; those Cuban ones Papa kept in the bedside drawer. If it weren’t for the spaciousness of the drawing room we’d be enveloped in a choking fog. There’s a cool air of smugness about him as well. As usual though it’s thinly covering a layer of unwarranted self-deprecation. I keep my eyes on the money, letting him wallow in as much privacy as I can allow in this situation. If I look at him I might not stay calm for much longer.

Solitaire stacks hundreds of pound notes over and over on the table. I should be happier about it. However, I can’t keep my attention away from Ricardo’s obnoxious little white lighter teasingly sat at the edge of the table. He absolutely loves to taunt me with his depression. I’m guilty by default or something along those lines. More often than I care to admit we locked horns over the issue.

“Ninety thousand, one hundred thousand…”

Last time the table got flipped, the money fluttering like lavish moths. Solitaire wasn’t best pleased. None of us were. Shots were fired, punches were thrown. As the older brother, eventually I was able to overpower him, pin him down. He spat and screamed and struggled. Then, he laughed. He laughed but inside he was still screaming. It took an incredible amount of restraint on my part not to scream back at him. At least, until he uttered those awful words.

“It’s your fault you know. Everyone just loves you. Only way I’ll get famous now is if I die young like one of those celebrities. You know, those ones that all died when they were twenty-seven? Yeah, I can be like that. I will be. You’ll be fucking sorry then”

I do regret how I retaliated. When your brother effectively tells you he plans to off himself at some point, the best reaction is perhaps not to tell him he’s stupid. At the time I couldn’t help it. I just wanted that blame rid of.  Ricardo already felt  guilty of his own existence and I made it worse. 

Now I have to live feeling that guilt every time I’m in his presence.

Guilty by default.

“Five hundred thousand! Nice!”

Solitaire slams down the last stack in elation. Ricardo is broken out of his brooding and thus so am I. My brother snuffs out the cigar and reacts with an amused chuckle.

“Damn, we did do well. Seems like this calls for a drink. I’m thinking Acerbi’s. Sol?” he gruffly comments, looking up at our companion. The eccentric gambler, dressed in her feminine attire for the day, grins with the enthusiasm of the Cheshire cat.

“Hell yeah. I wanna get pissed and ride the ferris wheel” She responds, extracting a portion of the pound notes to pay for a fun night out. She flashes the cash with an evil smirk. Ricardo leans over and snatches a few, pulling out a wallet from his iconic red jacket to store it.

“Sure, just don’t throw up on the passers-by again” he asserts with a friendly tone.

“I wasn’t that drunk. It was just bad shrimp” Sol pouts.

The jovial nature of the banter becomes hard to focus on. There’s a sense of awkwardness, smothered by a desire to have fun and forget everything. The emotions underneath are barely being controlled and we’re pretending like it’s not happening. I can’t keep this up. Not all night. Not again.

I need something else tonight.

So, as I was taught, I straighten my back, offer a polite smile and speak with a soft tone.

“That sounds delightful, but I’m afraid I won’t be joining you. I will be attending to other matters 

tonight. Do have fun in my place though”

There’s an essence of anger building from inside Ricardo. On the other hand I appear to have tickled 

Sol’s funny bone.

“You gon’ go get laid boy!”

She sure is blunt. Not like that’s a bad thing though. This isn’t exactly something I’m ashamed of. Far from it.

“What else would I be doing” I reply coyly.

“Necro Angels again?”

“Yes. I’ve found the cutest dancer who’s very…attentive to my needs”

Solitaire snorts, playfully punching my arm.

“Well, have fun with your sex or whatever. I’d much rather get drunk and vomit on theme park rides. Come on Ricky, onwards to fun!” she declares, essentially out the door with that statement. Ricardo grunts and gets up from his chair, following suit. I don’t even get so much as a glare from him on the way. Not externally anyway.

With both of them gone, the rooms feels empty. Emotionless. I shake my head. Come on Vitale, let’s get you to the club. You won’t be feeling too empty with that pretty thing taking care of you. Tying you up. Laying you down. Legs bare, ready for the riding crop…

Okay slow down boy.

Let’s try freshening up first. Put on a clean suit, splash on some cologne. A quick shave. A proper gentleman looks presentable for all sorts of situations, even the dirty ones.

I don’t bother calling for the limousine once I’m ready. Beside the fact that the other two likely took 

it out on the town for the night, I could probably benefit from what fresh air I can find on the walk over. Luckily, the Necro Angels club is located is one of the more developed districts of Gehenna, fairly close to the mansion. The convenience of the booty calls keeps the place in my favour.

On my way out the door I do remember to gather my gun though. One must be careful, even on as short a journey as this. I take to the streets, inhaling one sharp breath, mentally steeling myself. The moment I step beyond the gates I’m bombarded by the hail of emotional bullets firing from all directions. No hesitation, I pick up the pace and march onwards. I pass by so many people. Thanks to my status, no-one tries to start trouble but they cause it anyway. This city is filled with broken people. Each one that I pass by throws their emotional baggage onto the ever-growing weight on my shoulders. Still, I grit my teeth and bare it, like some sort of empathy mule.

It’ll be worth it soon, just keep moving.

The elegant glow of Satan’s boudoir becomes visible as I turn a corner. The alluring red glow entwines with the mist of the night, twirling into beguiling tendrils around my waist, appealing to my desires. With every step closer the sadness and pain from before is diffused with the intoxication of lust, romanticism and ecstasy.

Oh, what was I even fretting about again?

I stagger like a drunkard towards the den of sin. I’m praying in my head ‘Lord in Heaven grant me this one pleasure, this one vice’.

My prayer appears to be met with a challenge before God can grant it however. Almost overshadowed by the intensity of the patrons’ desire within the club, I’m able to pick out a spark of discomfort, fear.

Oh dear, is someone treating my only good pastime with disrespect?

We can’t have that, not in my city.

The negative emotions don’t appear to be entangled with the slew of horny patrons. With that thought in mind, from scouring the area I’m able to pick out two individuals slipping in the darkness around the side of the club. They won’t get far though. I stride over in their direction. The scene I come across is one that doesn’t shock me, yet still knocks at my sensibilities.

A young lad, sprawled on the floor, his trousers removed, shirt slightly pulled up over his stomach. The fear in his eyes is unquestionable. Towering over him is a middle-aged woman, dressed in office wear. Her blouse is popped open, pencil skirt riding up her thighs, brazenly revealing her chest and thong. She’s holding down the boy with a bladed high heel hovered above his chest, where the heart would be. Inhuman, guttural moans of sick pleasure erupt from her mouth.  The lust I feel emanating from her comes blended with elements of sadism and psychopathy. These are usually the types that cannot be reasoned with easily. I don’t have to rely on reason though. No need to catch her attention, try and usher her away, get myself out of this clean. That’s not my job. Besides, she doesn’t deserve it.

I move quickly, wanting to assure the lad’s safety, seizing the vile woman by the throat. I slam her to wall. She’s shorter than I am, so I hold her up to look her square in the eye. As expected she thrashes about. Her bladed heels catch my legs a couple of times. Internally I mourn for my clothes but I don’t flinch from the pain. In order to incapacitate her I squeeze my fingers tight around her throat, cutting off the air. She emits a squeal not unlike a pig being slaughtered. While she struggles to breathe, I look back to the young lad on the floor, who in his haze has managed to put his clothes back on but seems unable to move from shock. I make sure to flash him a nice smile. I want his attention for this. Lifting the tommy gun I have held in my free hand, I press it tight to the woman’s stomach. Still choking she fails to rattle off what I assume is some false apology. There’s not a single strand of shame within her being. Keeping the barrel held against her, I bring my lips close to her ear.

“Padre nostro che sei nei cieli, mandala all'inferno per tutti i suoi peccati”

The last words she hears, along with the sound of bullets shredding her insides. I’m numb to the recoil of the gun, focused solely on watching her soul leave her eyes, destined for hell. Satisfied at the destruction, I let go. She slumps to the floor in a heap of scattered blood and flesh. The pungent stink of her dirty blood prompts me to take a mental note that I’m due to go for a confessional later. I sigh and look back at the young lad, whose shock does not seem to have lessened. He mouths something close to ‘thank you’ and skitters off like a startled mouse, as far from the vicinity of the Necro Angels club as he can. It’s for the best I suppose. I don’t I can deal with much more of this today.

“I thought it might be you when I heard gunshots” a soft, alluring voice calls to me. I turn to see a face I’ve much needed. A slender, Asian young figure leans against the corner, treating it like a stripper’s pole. Long pink locks flow over androgynous clothes, clipped back so as not to cover the large birthmark covering one cheek. My beauty, Dalmatian.

“I assume it’s been another long day. Come, let me take care of you” Dalmatian speaks, every syllable dripping with pure eroticism. They saunter over to me, placing a gentle hand on my cheek. Stood there, being attended to in that alley, I feel my need for control slipping away. 

For a while I hand over everything, all those burdens, to someone else.