༒ 01– The Man Called The Collector ༒

༒ SERGEI ༒

The sound of a man begging for his life is both exquisite and annoying.

I stared down blankly at Frank, or so his name was, begging pathetically for his worthless life, like the annoying piece of shit he is. I don't even know why they try.

There was no other way out for them. For men like Frank. All they had to do was pay up their debt and by doing so, they made my job less annoying with their bloody pleas.

Frank owed the family a debt, one so heavy I could feel the weight on his shoulders. But he had no family to pull down with him—lucky for them, bad for him. Frank was a filth and I wanted nothing more than to end his miserable life.

His pleas made my ears fucking bleed.

It's always the same with men like them. They took loans bigger than their balls and gambled it all down till there's nothing but their shriveling flesh left to offer, when the time came to pay up.

Then they begin to beg, cry, whine for their pathetic lives. It's always so fucking ugly that I wanted to grab their neck and snap it every time they did, so they never utter a sound again.

Or better yet, rip out their vocal cord from their mouth.

I was here to collect. As per usual. It was my job. I even earned a nickname for it. The Debt Collector. Or for short, The Collector.

Under the command of my master I visit whom I'm told to visit to collect the debt owed when it's due. And when it’s not met, well, you know the drill.

I collected their payment in a pound of bloody flesh. It's a win for both sides. No questions asked. Ending their miserable lives had always been a perk. I'm the unfeeling monster and this was my routine.

So that's exactly why Frank here needed to go.

“One week,” he stuttered out a plea. Dirt and tears painted his scrawny face. I sighed at his dry attempt. “I–I promise… I'll g-get the money by then. Please, collector—”

I raised my gun to his forehead. The cold, black metal of my pistol kissed the center of his head. His eyes widened. Eyes filled with immense fear, it rocked the very core of his soul.

Yes, because the devil was here to collect what useless pieces there were of him.

He cried, shivering and looked me frightfully dead in the eye. Perhaps he hoped to find a glimmer of hope. My humanity perhaps? Too bad though, he won't find any. I lost it too long ago.

“Please—” I pulled the trigger and watched the light leave his eyes.

His body dropped to the ground like a sack of tomatoes. Blood splattered onto the creaking, rusty floor of his crappy as fuck house. I could practically smell the stench of his poverty.

This was what gambling did to you. It eats you up from the inside-out and leaves you a shell, a hollow of yourself.

Worst of all, you can't stop either.

The devil would always be on your shoulders, whispering sweet promises of double abundance. Urging you to take that risk and when you do, he’d leave you alone, crackling in laughter as you fall deeper and deeper into the dark hole of despair.

It leaves you broken and dried up. A miserable man. Like Frank and many more others I've had to sniff off the face of the earth.

I swiped the blood that slashed unto the side of my face with the back of my black gloved hands. Then I crouched beside his lifeless body and did my deed. I collected a pound of flesh, an evidence of my kill for the boss.

He wouldn't be pleased with this one either but it had to be done. Another life lost. And this one had nothing to mortgage for either. Just like most of them.

Pathetic men.

I've seen a lot of his type in my lifetime. I'm not even surprised anymore. On the other hand, I just got the job done and moved on to my next target.

On that note, I sent a message using a private number to the boss.

'It's done. The package will arrive soon.' I texted, my finger tips soiled with blood but I don't give a damn. I hit send.

A text came in almost immediately from a private number. 'Good job. Next target; Zara Quinn. Get the job done ASAP. Time limit; 24 hours max.'

Along with the text, came a document. I clicked on it, letting my gaze scan through the new information. My target was a twenty five years old woman. She's young. It was the first thing my mind cropped up.

It wasn't my first time collecting a debt from a woman. There are times when my targets for the week would be exclusively women. Though rarely but still a given.

However, this name rang an alarm in my head and before I knew it, I spoke the name out loud, “Zara.”

It was the first time saying a client's name out loud. But I just did. As though pulled by some invisible force.

Her name lingered in my tongue. The sound of it, strangely sweet. Like caramel. I hated sweets. But it felt awfully right to say out loud too. It almost sounded like she was…

I laughed at my thoughts. It was impossible and ridiculous to even think. I never think of a woman as anything ‘more.’ No more than a passing fling and no more than a distraction to pass up time. Nothing more, nothing less.

In this line of work, being involved with a woman could get you killed. But I was most particularly forbidden from ever being involved with a woman by my master. I knew the drill even if he didn't forbid it.

Besides, she was just a job, just like everyone else before her. When I got a job to do and I always got the job done. Now, with Frank settled, it was time to move onto the next.

Zara Quinn. Her time wasn't particularly up yet, but it wouldn't hurt to give her a little scare. A crude smile curled my lips as I stared down at the phone in my hand.

I nodded at my phone in my hand and grunted. Habits do fucking die hard. I responded with a plan text.

'Understood.'

Before I closed off the message box another text entered.

'Come home afterwards. No detours. You've been away too long.'

There were times Sozon would get like this and those times I wondered if he were under the influence of his favorite vodka. He sounded like a needy man. But he's never under the influence—At least I've never seen him. He was just a man that wanted his loyal hound dog close to him all the time and I always did as he commanded.

It was the way I was trained. To do his bidding.

But sometimes I like to take a break from the Morozov mansion. It was also my home. My salvation. But I had enemies even within the walls—not that they could cause me any harm—Sozon knew this too so he let me stay out as long as I wanted or as long as ‘he’ wanted.

The orders never stopped coming just because I was away though.

'Another text dropped in. That's an order, Sergei.'

I heaved a sigh, sticking my blood smeared hands into the thick of my hair. I pushed it away from my face before I typed out another word.

'Understood.'

I was a hound dog and it was my duty to obey my master when he called. It's also another name I was known by in the underworld but this particular name was given to me by Sozon himself and his father, Igor Morozov, the former patriarch.

But I think I preferred it better to The Collector.

I would kill and die for Sozon. Partly because I'm trained that way. Mostly because he earned that much trust and respect from me. After all, a hound dog could turn its teeth on its master with the right conditions.

Loyalty could be a fickle thing in the mafia world. But it could also be that much more powerful.

I slid my phone back into my pocket and stood to my feet, taking a piece of Frank with me. The clean up crew would take care of the rest. My job here was done. I boxed it and wiped my hands afterwards before stepping out of his house, down the street and got into my car.

My sleek black Audi looked out of place in the small, decrepit neighborhood but I knew no one would come close to it.

No one dared.

I was a known figure in the underworld. To most though, a ghost. But my car was also a symbol. It held the sign of the Morozov family.

I punched in the address to my new location into the GPS of my car and through the darkness I pulled off from the driveway into my designation.

Breaking into her apartment was easier than stealing candy from a baby's grip. I stirred my way into her bedroom. My gaze swept across the room. It's a small space but sizable enough to fit at least five people at once with a little extra space.

When my gaze finally darted to the bed at the center of the room, I found my target there. Her small frame is snuggled up underneath a blanket. She's sleeping so soundly, unaware of the intrusion into her house.

Usually, I'd make a sound in cases like these—it always worked in alerting my target of my presence in their home. It gave them a good scare too. I always found it amusing. But the minute I laid eyes on her, I couldn't look away.

I couldn't make a sound either.

She's bathed in the moonlight slipping in through her opened windows. The sheer white curtains—or I think they are white—swayed softly even though I don't feel the breeze.

The first thing I thought, she's a mesmerizing sight to behold. Her picture didn't do justice to her beauty even though she's asleep and facing away from where I stood at her door.

Her slender body looked smooth to touch. My fingers twitched at my sides at the temptation to run them over her smooth skin and brand every single inch of her body.

But I couldn't. She was simply a target and I do not touch my targets—not in the way I want to touch her anyway.

She's wrapped in the arms of a male—her lover perhaps. Although the knowledge of that did nothing to quench the growing need to explore this woman in front of me and maime the man behind her.

But seeing her now, I wondered why a beautiful, young woman as herself owed the family a debt and an amountable one too. She didn't seem like that sort of person to get involved in such dirty dealings as the men and women I've had to collect from.

I stealthily crossed the room and made myself comfortable on the small chair by the window. The furniture cried under the weight of my much larger body. Then I leaned against my spread out knees and I watched her.