Page 19 of Breaking Lucia
“Give me the knife out of the sink, Saint,” Angelo says, smirking.
Freddie pales, trying to squirm back, only to shriek when Angelo’s fingers tighten around his softening dick.
Angelo gives it a few strokes. “Come on, don’t be shy,” he leers. “Or do you just get it up for sluts like her?”
Freddie stammers, unable to get out any coherent words even as he shakes his head and stays still. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Boss,” he says to Victor. “I won’t do it again. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
Victor doesn’t even look remotely interested as Saint hands the serrated blade to Angelo, who takes it with his free hand. He holds the knife’s sharp, jagged edge against Freddie’s cock, and Freddie screams out more unintelligible shrieks.
I almost feel guilty at the sight, and I interject, “Jesus, he didn’t fuck me. You don’t have to cut his dick off.”
“You’re already in enough trouble,” the man Angelo called Saint tells me, jabbing a finger at my chest. “Shut the fuck up before we see what else Angelo can shove up your cunt. Since you’re so needy and all.”
I shut up.
Angelo holds the knife at the base of Freddie’s cock for another long moment then laughs. He swats at the dick like it’s a playtoy. “Aww, I’m just messing with you, man. I wouldn’t cut off your cock. Go ahead, zip up.”
Freddie gives him a wary look, obviously not trusting the jovial tone.
I don’t either.
But Freddie scrambles to tuck his dick away and pull up his pants, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Now give me your hand,” Angelo says, almost conversationally.
“What?” Freddie glances at Victor. “Boss?”
“I believe he asked you to give him your hand,” Victor says. “I suggest you don’t make him say it twice.”
Freddie swallows hard and looks at me, like he thinks I can get him out of this. I’m already in enough trouble without opening my mouth again. His lips set into a thin, hard line, and he offers his left hand to Angelo.
“There you go. Good boy,” Angelo mocks him. “Hand on the counter.” He pushes Freddie’s hand down onto the counter, and this time, the knife is poised at one of Freddie’s knuckles. He doesn’t hesitate. He drives the knife down, sawing viciously into his skin as the man starts screaming.
I’m no stranger to torture, but the sight of that serrated blade—a fuckingbreadknife—sawing at his skin is nauseating.
Only when the white of bone is showing, after long, agonizing minutes, does Angelo smile again at Freddie. “Now turn your hand over.”
“What?” he asks through his sobs.
“Turn your hand over. Palm up,” Angelo orders.
Freddie obeys, his expression full of despair, and just as we both likely suspected, Angelo goes to work on the other side of his finger. He works diligently, using that jagged edge to separate the skin around the bone.
“Gimme that boning knife over there,” Angelo tells Saint with a filthy smirk.
Saint laughs, grabbing another knife from a drawer. “Cold, dude. You could’ve just cut it off with this to begin with.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Angelo cuts his eyes to me. “I’m only starting to enjoy myself.”
I stare back at him, holding his gaze even though I’m trembling. It’s one thing to act calm and unbothered, but it’s another entirely to tell my body to get the memo. I’m too afraid of what’s coming next for me.
“Please don’t,” Freddie begs. “Please don’t cut it off. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
“I told you she was a special guest,” Angelo says, almost gently, as he rubs the blade through the hole he’d cut moments before. “And you thought it was a good idea to put your hands on her?”
“I’m sorry!” Freddie repeats like a broken record. “I won’t do it again.”
“Damn right you won’t.” Angelo slams the knife down hard, severing the finger at the first knuckle, right where he’d been toying with it.