The Rome Prophecy

125

Shooter looks down on Valentina.

The cop bitch doesn’t look so smart and arrogant now.

Flat on her back, face bloodied up, smart white blouse and black trousers full of filthy marks.

Now she looks different.

Now she looks like she knows who’s boss.

Shooter is.

Mater wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t like violence. Well, not unless it’s violence that she’s ordered, then of course it’s fine. Justified. Necessary. But Shooter’s violence is much more than those things.

It’s pleasurable.

And as Battakes, chief of the Galli, he’s entitled to indulge himself once in a while.

He pulls the cell door shut and enjoys its terrifying clunk.

He stares at Valentina through the bars. Despite the battering he’s given her, there are still no tears.

She has guts, he’ll give her that.

And she’s pretty, too.

No, more than pretty – she’s really quite beautiful.

Shame he doesn’t have the equipment to rape her, because he’d like to.

That’s what Mater doesn’t understand.

He still has the urge.

A raging urge.

Sex is in the mind, not just in your balls, the old woman should know that.

He looks again at Valentina. She’s sitting up now, trying to get her shit together. Very nice. Those long legs stretched out like that are a fine sight. Shooter would like to see her undressed. Maybe jam things in her. Ram her full of sticks and dirt until the rage dies down.

He turns from the bars. Walks away while he still can.

She’s lucky.

Lucky that he remembered his place. His sacred place in Mater’s universe.

There’s a noise behind him.

A clank.

And now his back feels wet.

He turns and can’t believe what he sees.

She’s thrown her bucket of cell piss over him.

He’s soaked in urine.

And she’s laughing at him. Grinning through the bars.

‘You ball-less fucking faggot!’ She flaps her arms with anger. ‘Is that the best you can fucking do?’

She bangs the bucket crazily on the bars. Metal on metal. Loud echoes bounce all over the place. ‘Is it? Is that really your best shot?’

She keeps cracking the bucket, venting all her anger in a wild, frenzied outburst.

It amuses Shooter.

Amuses and arouses him.

She’s like a lioness.

Maybe it’s his job to tame her.

‘Testa di cazzo!’ She throws the bucket at the bars and turns her back on him.

‘Big mistake,’ says Shooter, slipping his key into the lock. ‘You just made the biggest mistake of your life.’