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 before a decision someone's going to regret.
Taz stood by the window, arms crossed, chewing on something invisible — a habit he had when his brain was moving too fast. Rocco sat behind him, whiskey in hand, staring into the glass like it held answers.
"You know I've always been fascinated by the human body and how it works," Taz said, almost wistfully. Rocco didn't look up. "And you have the credentials to prove it."
Taz turned slowly. "What if they hurt her."
"They won't," Rocco said, without hesitation. "No, I mean—what if they do. It's possible."
This time, Rocco met his eyes. Something behind them shifted. The quiet rage. The restraint cracking. "Then they go to The Hole," he said. "And you finally get to put that biochem degree to use." Taz froze. Blinked. Then smiled. Wide. Unsettling. Like someone had just greenlit Christmas. "Shit. Really?"
Rocco nodded once. "Yes, Taz."
Taz stepped forward, almost reverently. "Do you still want the toxins?"
Rocco's voice was low. "Do you still have them?" Taz scoffed. "Of course I do."
"The... torture devices?"
"I prefer tools," Taz said, hand over heart. "But yes. Them too. I even have a whip lying around I've always wanted to use on someone." Rocco sighed. "Of course you do."
"Not in a sexual way—"
"I know, T." Taz drifted across the room, full of restless energy. "Could I just… do it now? Preemptively. Dump them in the Hole. Give them the starter package."
"No."
"Okay, sure… but like—what if it's just a little bit of torture, you know... medically supervised? Educational? Ethical, even
"No, Taz."
"Psychological only? Slow withdrawal from reality? I'll even label the syringes this time"
Rocco's tone sharpened. "Not unless they hurt her."
"Right, right. No torture. Got it. Just… extreme behavior correction with long-term memory impact"
Taz tilted his head. "You never let me use The Hole. You said it was only for people who crossed you, it's just— Taz ran a hand through his hair. "It's been so long since I really worked. Don't we have some enemies? Annoying ones? Minor traitors?"
"Not currently."
"You sure?"
Rocco paused. "There are five associates who stole product instead of moving it."
Taz's whole posture changed — laser-focused. "Can I go? Please say I can go."
Rocco rolled his eyes. "You can go."
Taz was already at the door. "Lets fucking go." The door clicked shut behind him. Silence returned. Rocco sat there, eyes on the 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.
"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 car like he was arriving at a party. A slow, wide smile stretched across his face — the kind that didn't belong in situations like this. Like a kid in a candy store.
"Hello, motherfuckers," he said cheerfully.
All five of them were lined up in the driveway, shoulders stiff, eyes darting. Young, twitchy, and clearly not ready for what was about to happen.
Taz gave one slow look around, then turned to the men behind him. "Search the house," he said, voice calm.
Then he looked back at the five boys, eyes glinting under the low morning light.
"Now. Which one of you dumb sons of bitches stole from us… for the second time?" No one answered. Taz waited one beat.
"Okay then," he said casually, and with a flick of his hand, gestured. "Take them to the kitchen."
The kitchen was small, cramped, too clean. One of those places where the smell of bleach was stronger than the smell of food. The five were shoved inside and lined up again — against the counter this time. Taz leaned back lazily against the opposite counter, arms folded, grin still plastered on his face like a man about to deliver a punchline. "Now…" he said, scanning the drawers without looking. "I'm standing in a room with a lot of knives. And I know a lot of ways to kill you." Silence.
"So you either tell me who it was… or I'll hurt you all." Still nothing. No one moved. No one breathed. Their fear was loud.
Taz let out a long, dramatic sigh, stood up, and walked over to the block of kitchen knives on the counter. He picked one — big, butcher-style — turned it over in his hand like he was testing the weight.
Then, without hesitation, he walked up to the second guy from the left and brought the blade down hard. The sound of the knife hitting bone was louder than the scream. Blood sprayed the tiles. A hand hit the floor. And the others flinched so hard it was like someone had fired a gun. Taz turned his head slowly toward Harry, voice raised but still terrifyingly calm.
"Who the fuck was it, Harry?" He pulled his Desert Eagle from his jacket and aimed it at Harry's chest without blinking.
"Tell me… or fucking bleed out."
Harry's mouth opened, then closed again.
The boy whose hand was gone was shrieking. The floor was slick with red. One of the others was sobbing. But Harry? He cracked. "It was Mason," he whispered. Taz tilted his head. "See. That wasn't so hard, was it?" He lowered the gun and patted his head. Walked back to the counter. Carefully wiped the blade clean. Then looked over his shoulder, still smiling.
"Patch him up. He gave us what we needed." Pause.
"And bring me Mason." They scrambled. And Taz just kept smiling.
Because this?
This was the part he lived for.
Mason didn't look at him. He couldn't.
His eyes were fixed on the floor, jaw tight, body trembling with the kind of fear that came from knowing exactly what came next.
Taz tilted his head. "Now…" he said slowly, "what do I do with you?" No answer. Just shallow, panicked breaths.
Taz studied him — eyes scanning the kid like a mechanic inspecting faulty parts. His brain clicked once, then twice. Bachelor in biochem and anatomy, he thought absently. And then he struck.
His fist slammed into Mason's ribs — hard and calculated. Not random. Not rage. Placement. Mason gasped, knees buckling. Taz hit him again. And again.
"Turn around," he said softly. Mason hesitated. "I said," Taz repeated, "turn. Around."
Tears streaked the 19 year old boy's cheeks. He turned. Sat with his back to Taz, arms up like it would help. Like anything could help.
"I'm sorry," Mason sobbed. "Please—please, I didn't mean—"
He never finished the sentence.
The gunshot echoed sharp and sudden, and Mason's body dropped forward like a puppet with cut strings. Taz lowered his Desert Eagle with a calm exhale and wiped a single spot of blood from his cheek with the back of his glove.
"I think they've learned their lesson," he said. No one argued.
Harry was pale. Silent. His hands shook, but he nodded quickly, desperate to prove he understood. "We won't say anything," he whispered. "I swear." Taz looked at him — really looked at him — then smiled with a tilt of his head that was almost playful. "You better not." He walked to the sink, rinsed the blood from his hands like he'd just chopped vegetables, and turned toward the door.
And the boys? They didn't say a word. Because they knew. He'd be back.
The door opened with a soft click.
Rocco didn't look up. He was in the middle of pouring himself another drink when he heard the familiar, casual footsteps across the marble floor.
"I take it you're smiling for a reason?" he asked dryly.
Taz dropped into the armchair opposite ham, legs over the armchair like he'd jjst returned from a damn spa.
"Did you get your fix?" Rocco asked. Taz scrunched up his nose, thoughtful. "Ehh… kind of."
Rocco arched an eyebrow. "Kind of?"
"I mean—it was fun, sure. The scream was decent. Blood sprayed nicely. Mason pissed himself, which is always a bonus. But…" He leaned his head back, exhaling like a bored teenager. "I need, like… real action, you know? It was over so fast too
I barely got started before he cracked," Taz said with a shrug. "I didn't even get to pull out the tendon hooks. Also, can I just say.. What a shit house that was. I mean, blood spray: 4 stars. Screams: decent. Room ambiance: meh."
Rocco took a slow sip of his drink. "God help me.
"Next time… keep it clean."
Taz smirked. "That was clean."
Rocco sighed. "I meant the kitchen."
"Oh." Pause. "Yeah, that's fair."
And then the silence stretched between them — calm, dangerous, familiar.
Just another day.
Author's Note:
Taz, our favorite chaos connoisseur, went from "hello motherfuckers" to butcher knife and gunshot execution in under ten minutes — and still made it home in time for casual banter and trauma-flavored tea with Rocco.
And let's be real: the fact that he rated the kill like a Yelp review? Peak Taz.
"Blood spray: 4 stars. Screams: decent. Room ambiance: meh."
This man needs therapy. Or a war.
Meanwhile, Rocco's just standing there like a single dad watching his feral child return from a playdate with Satan.
Let's just hope Travis and Owen doesn't hurt Reagan, Taz will bring the tendon hooks.