Meet Tommaso "Taz" Mancini
Biochemist with a bachelor in human anatomy.He could've cured people.Instead, he wanted to make them scream.Honestly? Slay.
The house was quiet.The kind of quiet that comes right before someone makes a decision they're going to regret.
Taz stood by the window, arms crossed, chewing nothing. A nervous habit. One he hadn't outgrown—because it wasn't really about nerves. It was about calculation. Too much input. Too many violent options.
Rocco sat behind him in silence, whiskey in hand, staring into the glass like it might offer a better outcome.
"You know I've always been fascinated by the human body," Taz said suddenly, voice wistful. "How it moves. How it breaks."
Rocco didn't look up. "And you have the credentials to prove it." Taz turned, slow and deliberate. "What if they hurt her."
"They won't," Rocco replied, no hesitation.
"No, I mean—what if they do. It's possible."
This time, Rocco met his eyes. Something shifted there. A flicker of rage—silent, steady, deep.
"Then they go to The Hole," he said. "And you finally get to put that biochem degree to use."
Taz froze. Blinked once. Then smiled. Wide. Unsettling.
Like someone had just handed him Christmas with a side of blood.
"Shit. Really?"
Rocco nodded once. "Yes, Taz."
Taz stepped forward, reverent. "Do you still want the toxins?"
"Do you still have them?"
Taz scoffed. "Please. I invented them."
Rocco arched a brow. "And the… torture devices?"
"I prefer 'tools,'" Taz replied, placing a hand over his heart. "But yes. And I even have a whip I've been meaning to test."
Rocco sighed. "Of course you do."
"Not in a sexual way."
"I know, T."
Taz paced across the room, all restless energy and quiet glee.
"I could just… do it now. Preemptively. Drop them in The Hole. Starter package. Just the basics."
"No."
"Just a little torture?"
"No, Taz."
Rocco's tone had sharpened, the kind that stopped people mid-breath.
"Not unless they hurt her."
Taz tilted his head. "You never let me use The Hole. You said it was only for people who crossed you."
Rocco finished his drink. Set the glass down slow.
"Yeah. Well. Maybe this time… it's personal."
Taz went still. Then grinned like the devil had just handed him a scalpel.
"God, I love this."
Rocco didn't answer.
Taz, oblivious or uncaring, rubbed his hands together. "Do we at least have some lesser scum I can work on? A warm-up? Someone dumb and mildly treasonous?"
Rocco considered. "There are five associates who stole product instead of moving it."
Taz perked up like a bloodhound catching scent.
"Can I go?"
"You can go."
He was already at the door. "Let's fucking go."
The door clicked shut behind him. Rocco sat in the silence that followed, eyes fixed on his empty glass. He wasn't the kind of man who let Taz off leash.But if they touched her? He'd bury the key with them.
The smugglers house
"What the hell is the Bloodhound doing here?"
Harry's voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He hadn't meant for it to sound scared. But it did. Because it was. Taz stepped out of the black car like he was arriving at brunch, not a bloodbath. His boots crunched gravel. His hoodie was unzipped. His smile? Too wide. Way too wide.
"Hello, motherfuckers," he said cheerfully.
All five boys stood in the livingroom. Shoulderr stiff. Eyes darting. Young, twitchy, and very, very aware that this was not going to be a conversation.
Taz gave them one slow look, then turned to the men behind him. "Search the house," he said, voice calm as Sunday morning.
Then he turned back. His gaze settled on the five like a lion picking out the slowest antelope.
"Now…" he said, drawing the word out. "Which one of you brilliant little bastards stole from us… again?"
No one moved.
Taz waited. One beat. Two.
"Okay then," he said brightly.
He gestured lazily.
"Take them to the kitchen."
The kitchen was too clean. Sterile. Smelled like bleach and denial. The five were lined up again—backs to the counter, faces pale.
Taz leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded, still grinning like he was about to deliver a TED Talk on pain.
"I'm gonna be real with you" he said. "I'm in a room with a lot of knives… and a severe lack of patience."
Silence.
"You either tell me who it was…" He tilted his head, voice still friendly. "Or I hurt you all."
No one spoke. The air felt thinner. Taz let out a theatrical sigh and walked over to the butcher block. He selected a heavy knife—broad, curved, beautiful. He turned it in his hand, testing the weight.Then stepped up to the second guy from the left.
And brought the blade down.
The sound of it hitting bone was louder than the scream.
Blood sprayed the white tile.
A hand hit the floor.
The scream didn't even stop right away—it just broke into gasps, shrieking sobs. The others flinched so hard you'd think a gun had gone off. Taz, calm as ever, turned to Harry.
"Who the fuck was it, Harry?"
He pulled a gun—his Desert Eagle—from his coat and aimed it at Harry's chest like he was pointing out a dinner special.
"Tell me… or start leaking."
Harry's mouth opened. Then closed. The boy with no hand was shrieking. Another was sobbing.
Finally—
"It was Mason," Harry choked. "It was him. I swear."
Taz's head tilted, his voice soft. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He lowered the gun, patted Harry's head with a gloved hand, and turned back to the counter. He wiped the blade clean like he was prepping for a cooking show.
Then looked over his shoulder.
"Patch him up," he said. "He gave us what we needed."
A pause.
"And bring me Mason."
They scrambled.
And Taz? He smiled. Because this was the part he lived for.
Mason didn't look at him.Couldn't.
His eyes stayed glued to the floor, jaw clenched, body trembling with the kind of fear that only comes when you already know what's about to happen.
Taz studied him, head tilted like a curious scientist.
"Now…" he said slowly, voice soft as silk. "What do I do with you?"
No answer.
Just panicked breaths and a pulse that sounded like a war drum.
Taz didn't need words. He was watching Mason the way surgeons watch for weakness—anatomy first, humanity second. A brain calculating every nerve ending and pressure point.
Then he struck. His fist slammed into Mason's ribs. Hard. Precise. Not rage. Technique.
Mason choked, knees buckling.
Taz hit him again. And again. Different spots. All targeted.
"Turn around," Taz said gently.
Mason hesitated.
"I said," Taz repeated, "turn. Around."
Tears streaked Mason's cheeks. He turned slowly, arms raised like it might matter. Like surrender could change the ending.
"I'm sorry," Mason sobbed. "Please—I didn't mean—"
He never finished the sentence.
The gunshot echoed sharp and clean.
Mason crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Taz lowered his weapon with a soft exhale. Calm. Peaceful, even. Like something had been resolved.
He wiped a single fleck of blood from his cheek with the back of his glove. "I think they've learned their lesson," he said simply.
No one argued. No one breathed. Harry was white as paper. Silent.He nodded, trembling. "We won't say anything. I swear."
Taz looked at him for a long moment. Really looked.
Then he smiled. A slow, tilted thing. "You better not."
He turned toward the sink, rinsed his hands like he'd just diced tomatoes instead of a teenager's sense of safety, and strolled to the door.
The others didn't speak. Because they knew—
He'd be back.
Back at the House
The door opened with a soft click.
Rocco didn't look up.
He was halfway through pouring another drink when he heard the familiar, casual footsteps across the marble.
"I take it you're smiling for a reason?" he asked without turning.
Taz dropped into the armchair opposite him like he'd just returned from a massage. Legs thrown over the side. Relaxed. Pleased.
"Did you get your fix?" Rocco asked.
Taz wrinkled his nose. "Ehh. Kind of."
Rocco raised a brow. "Kind of?"
Taz waved a hand. "I mean, yeah. There was screaming. Mason pissed himself, which is always fun. Blood spray was solid—good arc, 7/10 coverage. But…"
He let out a dramatic sigh and flopped his head back. "It was over too fast. Barely got started before he cracked. Didn't even pull out the tendon hooks."
He glanced sideways. "Also, can we talk about how ugly that house was? I mean—blood dynamics aside—zero ambiance."
Rocco took a slow sip of his whiskey. "God help me."
"Next time," Taz added with a grin, "give me something real."
"Next time," Rocco said, "keep it clean."
Taz blinked. "That was clean."
"I meant the kitchen."
"Oh. Yeah, okay, that's fair."
Silence settled. Familiar. A little dangerous. A little comforting. Just another day.