“You held court,” I continue, stopping directly in front of her. I lean down, bringing my face level with hers, though her unfocused eyes stare through me. “All those sycophants hanging on your every word. You spoke about ‘consolidating power’. About ‘purging weak elements’. You looked right at me when you said that, didn’t you? A little smile playing on your lips. You thought you were so untouchable.”
I straighten up, gesturing around the dank cellar. “And now look at you. This is your throne room. This filth is your court. You are nothing. Less than nothing. You’re a sack of broken bones and piss, waiting for me to decide what to break next.”
A sound escapes her throat, a wet, guttural rattle. It takes me a moment to realise it’s an attempt at speech.
“Antonio…” she croaks.
“Yes?” I prompt, feigning interest. “Do you have something to share? Some final pearl of wisdom?”
She gathers what little strength she has left. Her body trembles with the effort. And then, with a shocking suddenness, she hacks a gob of bloody phlegm onto the pristine silk of my shirt.
It lands just below my collarbone, a wet, pinkish stain against the dark fabric. The chamber falls silent save for the hiss of the lantern and Vera’s ragged, triumphant gasps.
I look down at the mess as a profound, icy calm settles over me.
I reach into my breast pocket and pull out a monogrammed handkerchief, pure white linen. Slowly, meticulously, I dab at the stain, soaking up themoisture. I examine the spot, then fold the handkerchief to a clean corner and wipe again until only a faint, damp patch remains.
I look at Vera. A flicker of something --defiance, maybe even amusement-- lights her dull eyes. She thinks she’s scored a point. She thinks this small, animalistic rebellion matters.
I smile. It’s not a pleasant smile.
And then I strike.
It’s not a wild, angry blow. It is precise, almost clinical. A hard, open-handed slap that connects with her cheek with a crack that echoes off the walls. The force of it snaps her head to the side, but the brace wrenches it back into position with a sickening jerk. Her eyes roll back into her skull, showing the whites, and her entire body goes limp. The faint tremor of consciousness vanishes, replaced by the dead weight of oblivion.
I wait.
I flex my stinging hand and retrieve a crystal decanter of amber whiskey and a single glass from a small table in the shadows. I pour two fingers, the liquid catching the lantern light. I take a slow sip, savouring the smoky burn as it travels down my throat. I don’t look at her. I listen.
After a few minutes, a low moan filters through the silence. It’s the sound of a soul being dragged back into a body it no longer wants. Her breathing hitches, becomes a pained gasp. Her eyes flutter open, swimming with disorientation before focusing, with dawning horror, back on me.
The defiance is gone. Replaced by the primal, grinding reality of pain.
I set my glass down and approach her again. I don’t mention the spit, I don’t mention the slap. They are footnotes. The main text of our conversation remains.
“Vera,” I say, my voice soft but carrying an undeniable edge of steel. “Let’s return to the only thing that matters. I want names. I want locations. I want details.”
Vera’s lips part. A dry, clicking sound emerges. I think she’s trying to form words, and I lean closer. Anticipating a whisper, a confession, a name.
Instead, she laughs.
It starts as a low, wheezing chuckle, a sound like gravel grinding in a broken gearbox. It grows, gaining strength and a horrifying, manic energy. It’s not the laugh of someone finding humour in the situation. It’s the laugh of someone who has seen the abyss and found a terrible, final joke at its bottom. She throws her head back as much as the brace will allow, and the laughter erupts from her, raw and screeching, echoing off the concrete in a cacophony of madness.
It’s the most unnerving sound I’ve heard in months.
My composure cracks. The icy calm shatters. “What is so funny?” I snarl, gripping the arms of her chair, my face inches from hers.
The laughter subsides into wet, choking coughs. Tears mingled with blood and sweat stream down her face. She finally manages to speak, her voice a ragged shred.
“You, you arrogant fucking fool,” she gasps. “All this… all this time… you’ve been asking the wrong bloody question.”
I freeze. The wrong question? Every intelligence report, every intercepted communiqué, pointed to the Esau. Pointed to her. She was the mastermind. She had to be.
“Don’t play games with me, Vera,” I warn, my voice dangerously low.
“It’s no game,” she wheezes, a fresh wave of that terrible mirth bubbling up. “You think you’re so clever. Torturing me for the secrets of some big, bad Esau plot. You think we’re a monolith? A single, unified beast?”
She struggles for breath, her body convulsing. “The attack on Ines… it wasn’t an Esau directive. If it was us, then it was a faction. A splinter group. We…I… condemned it.”
