Blood of Gato

Two bodies lay on the cold concrete floor, beaten and gasping, coughing up blood. The air was thick, saturated with dampness, rust, and decaying hopelessness. Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped slowly and steadily, counting not minutes, but their remaining breaths. Neither Tony nor Louis knew where they were, who had kidnapped them, or why. The only thing connecting them was their shared family ties as members of the Italian mafia, accustomed to danger, but now they truly felt fear for the first time.

Tony lay on his back, clutching his shattered arm, his T-shirt soaked with blood and sweat. A crimson clot had dried in the corner of his mouth, and each breath sent pain shooting through his ribs. Louis, heavier and stockier, leaned against the wall, his breathing wheezy, lips trembling, with a dark bruise spreading under his eye.

"Hey, Tony," Louis rasped, struggling to turn his head. His voice was gravelly. "Are you alive over there?"

"I'd say I'm alive if I could move even a finger…" Tony weakly chuckled through clenched teeth. "Damn it, Louis, next time I'll drive. If there is a next time, of course."

"Feels like a basement… do you hear that dripping? Must be some pipes leaking somewhere," Louis listened intently. Drip-drip. Drip-drip. "Do you think they're even looking for us?"

Tony stared at the ceiling, where a cobweb barely showed in the darkness.

"Family doesn't abandon their own," he said uncertainly, though there was no bravado left in his voice. "Maybe Gino is already up to something."

Suddenly, he started coughing, doubling over as a crimson drop fell onto the concrete.

For a moment, both fell silent, listening to their own hearts pounding in their chests.

"Remember," Louis quietly began, trying to distract himself from the pain, "that night at Bella Vita when we were playing poker at Gino's kitchen? You lost your car to me then, and I promised not to tell Angela where you were."

Tony snorted, trying to smile. "Yeah, but you kept that lighter for yourself, you rat. You're probably still carrying it in your pocket, right?"

Louis pulled a trembling hand from beneath him and showed Tony the familiar silver lighter—the only remnant of their former lives. They both smiled for a moment, but that fleeting connection shattered when the door burst open with a crash.

A tall figure in a black hoodie and a mask resembling a faceless black smile appeared in the doorway. The kidnapper walked in slowly, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete, holding something that resembled a crowbar in his hand.

He stopped at the threshold, tucking his free hand behind his back.

"Dear guests," his voice, distorted by the mask, sounded dull and harsh. "It's time to say goodbye. It's a shame; you were quite entertaining company. But, it seems, it's not meant to be."

A thick, heavy pause hung in the air.

Tony clenched his teeth and threw a quick glance at Louis, a familiar look exchanged in silence, one they had shared during countless deals. Louis understood: now or never.

"Hey, man," Tony rasped, trying to buy some time, "We can work something out. Maybe you need money? Connections? You're not working alone, right?"

The black figure stepped closer, leaning over Tony. Icy sarcasm laced his voice. "Money? Connections? You're nothing more than a pawn, Tony. You think your bosses will pay for you? They've already forgotten about you."

While the kidnapper spoke, Louis felt something hard against the wall—a rusty piece of rebar. Slowly and almost imperceptibly, he wrapped his fingers around it, feeling warm blood trickle down his hand.

"Listen, buddy," Louis began, trying to divert attention. "It doesn't have to end like this… We're human, not meat. Tell me, what do you want?"

The kidnapper turned to him, something alive, almost human, flickering in his eyes before it vanished.

"I want… or rather, I wanted to be a sort of garbage collector, you know?" the masked man said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He lazily tapped the crowbar against the floor, each strike resonating dully in Tony's head. "The one who cleanses this world of the unnecessary, of the trash. But now," he chuckled briefly, "I have a competitor."

Louis stood in the shadows, gripping the bloody piece of rebar so tightly that his knuckles turned white, yet he hesitated to strike. The mask obscured any sign of whether their tormentor was smiling or grimacing in rage.

"I'm not against healthy competition," the kidnapper continued, pacing in a circle like a predator in a cage. "But there are things I don't forgive. Plagiarism is one of them. Imagine," he paused, his figure blocking the dim light from the bulb overhead, "You're Picasso. You paint masterpieces. And then some kid approaches you, creating a pathetic mess out of shit and claims: 'This is art!' and calls himself an artist…" The threat in his voice edged into madness. "What do you think a true master would do?"

Tony wanted to retort but fell silent, watching as the mask leaned closer to him. Louis, not waiting for the kidnapper's full attention to shift to his friend, began to rise silently, careful not to let his boots squeak against the concrete.

"And right now," the man hissed ominously, "I want to meet this impudent one. This… corpse who dared to steal my work!"

He suddenly turned just as Louis raised the rebar to strike. It all happened quickly; Louis swung with all his might at the kidnapper's head, but he deftly caught the blow with one hand, not even flinching.

"Well, well," he smirked, locking eyes with Louis. "A bold move for a rat. Foolish, but bold."

Forgetting his pain, Tony lunged at the kidnapper, grabbing his arm in an attempt to distract or hold him back. But the masked man didn't budge. He squeezed the rebar so hard that the metal groaned and bent. Louis struggled to break free, but his opponent was inhumanly strong.

"You said you're not meat," the kidnapper said almost gently, "but you're worse than that. Parasites, feasting on others' blood, preying on the weak. Trash that needs to be cleaned up."

He bent the rebar until its sharp end was pointed directly at Louis's face. Louis's eyes widened in fear, but he had no time to retreat or scream as the kidnapper effortlessly thrust the sharp, bent end of the metal into his throat.

Louis gasped, blood instantly flooding his lips and chin. He fell to his knees, then collapsed onto his side, clutching his throat in desperate futility.

"No! Louis!" Tony screamed, lunging at the kidnapper with fists and teeth, but he was easily pushed aside, like an annoying puppy.

Something resembling a smile flickered behind the mask.

"Too bad your friend left us too soon," he said calmly, wiping his hand on his jeans. "But that's alright. I'll make do with just you, Tony."

Tony sprang to his feet, fists clenched, and shouted, his voice filled with desperation and rage: "What are you going to do to, you bastard?! What do you want?!"

The masked man stepped closer, his breath steady and icy. He leaned in, allowing Tony to see his eyes—behind the mask, they suddenly flared yellow, with large black pupils.

"Oh, my friend," he whispered, "I want you to be my message. You will carry the truth to everyone."

The kidnapper's fingers closed around Tony's chest, and suddenly he felt as if he couldn't breathe—something was tearing and breaking within him, as if a giant claw was squeezing his heart. He tried to scream, but only a raspy sound escaped.

"You have a heavy heart, Tony," the tormentor said with a sad smirk. Then his hand morphed strangely, fingers elongating into black claws that glinted in the dim light.

"No…" Tony whispered, but it was already too late.

In one swift motion, the claws pierced through his ribcage, ripping out his still-beating, bloodied heart, trembling in the inhuman grip. Everything around him blurred; sounds became distant, as if he were plummeting into an abyss.

The last thing he saw was the kidnapper bringing his heart to his own face, those yellow eyes igniting with a demonic fire.

"There you go," he murmured, as if soothing a child. "This is how trash disappears forever."

And the concrete floor became Tony's final pillow.

******

"Faster, faster, even faster," William urged himself, unsure of what he was running from. His legs felt weightless, as if he were sprinting through air instead of on the cracked asphalt of the night city. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart thudded in his temples, but his gaze remained fixed on a single point ahead—a mountain rising on the horizon like a colossal fortress.

The city he raced through was strangely empty: not a soul in sight, not a sound to be heard, just the moonlight reflecting off the windows and the wet pavement. From the alleyways, dozens of eyes watched him—black, striped, and ginger cats perched on windowsills, fences, and rooftops. Their eyes glowed with gold and green, as if they knew his destination and the urgency behind it.

Suddenly, a sleek black cat appeared beside him, its fur glossy and thick, as if sculpted from the night itself. It dashed ahead, sometimes outpacing William and occasionally glancing back over its shoulder, letting out a short meow, as if to encourage him:

"Why are you hesitating? Catch up!"

"Wait!" William gasped, struggling to keep pace. "Where are we running to?"

The cat didn't answer; it simply quickened its pace, skillfully leaping over a trash can before disappearing around a corner. William followed, tripping over his own feet, and suddenly felt his movements becoming more feline; he crouched low to the ground to make a long jump, his fingers instinctively curling.

They reached the base of the mountain, which loomed before him, covered in gray boulders and blanketed in moss and brush. The cat was the first to scale the rocks, moving effortlessly.

"Come on, don't lag behind!" its demanding voice echoed in William's mind, like a silver bell ringing.

"I'm coming," he rasped, gripping the sharp edges. The cold wind whipped across his face, and the stones scratched at his palms and knees. But there was little pain—only a burning desire to reach the summit, where the shimmering moonlight beckoned, promising something significant.

The cat had already reached the top, its silhouette sharply outlined against the crimson moon, which appeared like a giant lantern.

"Faster!" it shouted, sending a chill down William's spine.

Summoning all his strength, he pushed himself harder; his hands trembled, blood oozed from under his nails as he grasped the final stone, pulling himself up with his last ounce of energy… and froze.

The cat was gone. Silence enveloped him; only the wind moaned through the crevices. William stood at the very top of the mountain, clouds swirling beneath him, and the moon hung so low it seemed he could reach out and touch it.

"Where are you?" he called, scanning the horizon.

The only response was a muffled growl, deep and animalistic, unlike any cat's voice. William turned sharply, but didn't have time to see anything: a powerful force slammed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling into the abyss.

He fell, fell, fell, until he screamed, "Oh God, no!" And with that cry, he woke up.

He sat up in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat. The room was filled with cold morning light, the window wide open, and the cool air cut sharply against his skin. His heart raced wildly, and a lump rose in his throat.

"It's okay," he breathed, trying to calm himself. "It was just a dream… Just a dream…"

He ran a trembling hand over his face. For a moment, he thought he still felt blood under his nails, but upon closer inspection, he saw only shadows. Throwing off the blanket, he stood up; his legs wobbled, and his back ached.

"My back…" he mumbled, swaying as he approached the mirror. Sunlight illuminated his back, and in the reflection, he clearly saw long, bloody streaks, as if from a beast's claws.

"What the hell… Am I dreaming?" he whispered, horror-stricken as he examined the wound.

He squeezed his eyes shut, once, then again, desperately wishing to wake up fully. When he opened his eyes, the reflection was the same—no blood, no cuts. Just pale skin, beads of sweat, and a tired, frightened gaze.

"I'm losing my mind…" he muttered, swallowing hard with a dry throat.

******

After getting ready and dressing, William descended the creaky stairs to the kitchen. Light filtered softly through the curtains. At the table, sitting cross-legged on a chair, was Sam, methodically nibbling on a sandwich, one hand gripping her phone and the other holding her food.

"Good morning," William greeted cheerfully, trying to conceal the fatigue in his voice. He smiled at his sister, though his eyelids still threatened to close.

Sam nodded without looking up from her phone, casually taking another bite.

"Where's Mom?" he asked, opening the fridge and scanning the shelves for something edible. "Didn't she make breakfast? Why are you eating a peanut butter sandwich?" he added, noticing her meal.

"Mom left early; she has an urgent shift," Sam replied with a shrug. "And this isn't a peanut butter sandwich; it's a cheese one." She turned the bread to reveal a golden slice of cheese, glistening with warmth.

William whistled, took the milk, and gulped straight from the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Tasty! And so nutritious. Aren't you afraid that with such a love for cheese, you'll wake up as a mouse one day? Although, wait, you already…"

He grimaced, mimicking a rodent: pouting his lips, showing his front teeth, and giggling.

Sam shot back: "Aren't you afraid that if you keep drinking milk like that, we'll start milking you instead of the cow?"

"Ha-ha, very funny," he snorted, pouring cereal into a bowl and then taking another gulp straight from the carton.

Sam rolled her eyes, sighed, and handed him an empty glass. "You can pour me some if you don't mind, but drinking from the bottle is gross."

"Don't worry, sis, my germs will just strengthen your immune system!" William said with exaggerated concern as he carefully poured milk into her glass.

They ate, immersed in the morning bustle, until Sam reached for the small television on the kitchen shelf and turned it on. She flipped through the channels so quickly it seemed she was searching for something specific, but eventually settled on the news.

"...another body was found late last night," the reporter said from the screen, his voice trembling with tension. "The police refuse to comment on the details, but sources claim that, like the previous victims, the heart was ripped out. A strange note was found near the body…"

William froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, a chill running through him.

"Sam, wait, don't change the channel!" he urged quickly, noticing his sister reaching for the remote.

Sam huffed but switched back to the news.

"...The note reads: The true master is only one, and the others will be destroyed. Police are currently investigating whether this case is linked to the previous murders. If you have any information about the crimes or mysterious messages, call us at the number on your screen. We are available 24/7…"

William stared at the screen, his fingers tightening around the spoon.

"It's for me," he thought coldly. "The maniac... is sending me a message."

"What a nightmare," Sam said, noticing his expression. "Are you happy now? Can I watch something normal?"

"Yeah, sure," he nodded, forcing a smile. "Really, it's morning, and already such horrors... Better put on something about dogs or celebrities."

Sam immediately switched to a morning talk show, where the cheerful voice of the host filled the screen.

"There, that's better," she smiled and took a sip of milk from her glass.

Meanwhile, William sat, barely tasting his food, and stole glances at the window, his mind racing.

******

"You goddamn idiots! What are you even getting paid for!? Did you become police officers just to sit on your asses and stuff yourselves with donuts!?" the captain exploded, his voice echoing through the cramped precinct hall. A loud thump of his fist on the table made a cup of cold coffee jump and papers scatter. His face flushed crimson, sweat beading on his forehead. He ripped off his tie and tossed it onto a chair, taking two quick steps along the board covered with case materials before turning back to his subordinates, glaring at each of them.

On the wall behind the captain hung a board: photos from crime scenes pinned up, city maps marked with colored dots, printouts of anonymous messages, and fragments of evidence in clear bags. Red strings connected victims, streets, and dates—a grim web with a question mark at its center.

"Do you know how many murders we have right now!?" he growled, stopping in front of the board and surveying those present with a heavy gaze. A couple of officers shifted nervously from foot to foot; one clenched a notebook tightly, while another stared at the floor.

"I'll tell you, damn it—enough for the press and the mayor to bury us all!" He clenched his fist, barely restraining the urge to smash something else. Carl and Tommy sat at the very back, trying to blend in with their chairs. Carl shot a quick glance at the captain, while Tommy peered up from under his brow, keeping his hands on his knees just in case.

"They're ready to squash us like goddamn cockroaches!" The captain slammed the board again, causing the photos to shudder. "And you, instead of hunting down the bastard, are running around the district like a flock of blind chickens! If any of you have anything to say, speak up now, or I'll personally feed you to the city folk!"

A thick silence hung in the air, broken only by the creak of a chair. One of the younger officers, pale but resolute, raised his hand.

"Sir, what about the latest message left by the killer? Have we figured anything out?"

The captain turned to him, squinting as if deciding whether to shout or not, but then exhaled sharply and hissed, "Are you all idiots? Can't even read the damn cases properly!?"

The officer lowered his eyes. The captain scanned the others, who shrank back tighter, trying to blend into the crowd.

"Carl, explain everything we have on this bastard. Let everyone hear it since they can't read," he snapped, his voice dropping lower but becoming even more menacing.

Reluctantly, Carl stood up, quickly scratching the back of his head. He knew the entire room would be listening to him as if he were under interrogation. He approached the board, took a pointer, and jabbed at the photographs.

"This case has a lot of oddities, to be honest. If the first murders were the work of our Heart-eater, we're almost certain of that. But the other three—namely the murders of the Pierson family and Mateo Smith—were likely committed by someone else."

"Why?" interrupted an officer in the front row. "The victims also had their hearts ripped out. It's just like before!"

Carl nodded, looking at the photos—gruesome, with bloodstains and distorted faces. "Almost everything. But there are details." He lifted one of the photographs. "The Heartbreaker always worked clean: one precise strike to the heart, minimal traces. Here, though, it's pure brutality, chaos. It's as if someone was trying to copy but didn't know all the details."

Anna, standing by the wall, let out a quiet sigh and met Sam's gaze. They merely shrugged—how many times had they discussed this among themselves?

"And here's another thing," Carl continued. "In the case of Tony Russo, everything matches the Heart-eater's style. The same handwriting, all by the book. We deliberately kept details under wraps to prevent copycats. But,"—Carl pointed at a separate letter pinned to the board—"after these copies, the Heart-eater seems to have gone wild. He left us a message. A direct threat: stop searching for my art in the dirt. He clearly feels insulted. And I'm sure he'll make his presence known again, but in a different way."

Carl distributed photographs down the rows, and the officers began to whisper among themselves, examining the images.

"What do we know about the copycat?" asked an officer with a ponytail, nervously fiddling with her pen. Her voice came out slightly louder than intended, causing several heads to turn in her direction.

Carl looked at her, nodded briefly, and stepped forward to be more visible to everyone. "Fortunately, we have a bit more information about the copycat," he began, flipping through his notes. "A week ago, there was an attack on three teenagers on the outskirts of town. Only one survived; the others died. The boy managed to give us some details before slipping into a coma. He said the attacker was white and, for some reason, mentioned that he had… cat-like eyes."

A restrained chuckle rolled through the room. Someone snorted, and a few whispered to each other, smirking. Carl frowned and glanced at the captain, but seeing no reaction, he continued.

"And that's not the only witness. At Mateo Smith's house, where the latest murder occurred, we found a woman—Dahlia Gomez. She isn't local; Mateo brought her here from Mexico to help with the household. Dahlia also saw the attacker. She described him as average height, thin, and wearing a mask, so she couldn't make out his features. But, importantly, she claimed he had strange eyes—yellow, like a cat's."

Tommy, standing off to the side, lifted his eyes from his notebook but remained silent. Carl quickly met his gaze, as if seeking support, but Tommy just shrugged and looked down.

"According to Dahlia, she managed to shoot at the attacker, and she thinks she hit him," Carl continued. "At the scene, we found blood that doesn't belong to either Mateo or Dahlia. But it's too early to celebrate: the lab says the material is heavily contaminated, and they couldn't extract any DNA."

Carl nervously scratched the back of his head and fell silent, shifting his gaze from one officer to another. The whispers in the room rose again, this time louder. One of the young patrol officers, smiling, couldn't hold back:

"So what now? Are we looking for a psycho with cat eyes? Maybe we should consult with veterinarians…"

Laughter erupted, and someone clapped their knees. Carl felt heat rise to his cheeks. He was about to respond but was cut off by the captain, who slammed his palm against the board, causing the photographs to tremble again.

"If needed, you'll comb through this goddamn city and interrogate every stray cat! Got it!?" the captain barked, his eyes blazing. The laughter immediately ceased, and the officers straightened up.

"Actually," Leah, the forensic expert, interjected, squeezing closer to the board, "this could be a good thing. Cat-eye contact lenses are rare, especially in Pennsylvania. We need to check all optical shops and theater supply stores. Someone must have purchased those lenses recently—request customer lists, credit information, cash payments, anything you can find. And don't forget about online stores: check if anything similar has been ordered in the area."

She spoke calmly, even with a hint of enthusiasm. Several officers hurriedly scribbled down her words.

The captain nodded, his expression still stern, but a glimmer of approval shone in his eyes.

"I hope you now understand the weight of responsibility on our shoulders," he said, pacing in front of the board. "We have two maniacs: the Heart-eater and his goddamn copycat. If any of you leak unnecessary details to the press and they give the copycat a nickname, I'll personally ensure you're interrogated like you're the Heart-eater!"

He held up two fingers, as if marking an imaginary score on the board.

"Now," the captain continued, "patrol officers: you'll start round-the-clock shifts, especially in high-risk areas. Detectives, work the evidence, interview witnesses, check stores, pharmacies, veterinary clinics—everything. Leave no stone unturned!"

The officers began to move, buzzing as they broke into small groups. Carl wearily dropped onto the edge of a table, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

The captain approached him, paused for a moment, and then, lowering his voice to a whisper, placed a hand on Carl's shoulder.

"I'm counting on you all. Don't let me down…" He held Carl's gaze, a mixture of fatigue and concern in his eyes. "I have no one else but you."

Carl nodded, feeling the tension in his chest shift to stubborn determination. He glanced at Tommy, who was already gathering papers into a folder.

"Let's get to work," Carl said quietly, gripping the case folder tightly. "The city and… two monsters are waiting for us."