He sees my compliance, my silence, and smiles.
“I have work to do,” he murmurs before he leans down and kisses me once more, this time on the lips.
The silence that he leaves is louder than any noise. I am alone. Alone with the throbbing ache in my body, the leaden weight in my stomach, and the cold, glittering shackle on my wrist.
A wave of nausea, real and potent, rolls through me. It’s not just from the food; it’s from the sheer, monstrous absurdity of my situation.
I am here. In his bed. Wearing his diamonds. My body aching from the entertainment I provided for his buddies.
And I let him feed me.
Ithankedhim.
Shame, hot and acidic, burns my throat. I stumble to the bathroom, collapsing to my knees on the cold floor in front of the toilet, my body heaving.
But nothing comes up. My stomach is too full, too tight, refusing to relinquish the bounty my master forced upon it.
I am denied even that small act of rebellion.
So instead, I dry-heave until tears stream down my face, until my bruised ribs ache with the strain and I can no longer do anything but sob.
“Non sapevo, Antonio, te lo giuro. Pensavo fosse una delle nostre… una risorsa della Confraternit.” The Senator’s voice is slick with sweat, even over the encrypted line as I hold the phone to my ear.I don’t know, Antonio, I swear. I thought she was one of ours, a Brethren asset.
I let the silence stretch, a cruelty I can afford to enjoy and he cannot. I lean back in my chair, the black leather sighing in sympathy.
“Bullshit,” I say, the English word a hard, alien artifact in our Italian argument. It has more bite. “È una cazzata e tu lo sai.”
“Antonio, per l’amor di Dio…”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice dropping to a low, controlled simmer. “Do not invoke God. God has abandoned you to my judgment, and I am telling you that is bullshit. I would know.I. Would. Know.” Each word is a nail tapped gently, precisely against the lid of a coffin. “If she were ours, it would have been abundantly clear. Besides, why would we ever have need for such action with you?”
He mutters something unintelligible, a prayer or a curse. The sound grates. My patience, a finite resource I hoard more carefully than gold or uranium is thinning, stretching into transparency.
“You have been trying to contact me for weeks, you say? Wailing like a lost child, and what did you expect? That I would pat your head and tell you everything would be alright? That I would clean up your mess with a smile?” I let out a short, derisive laugh. “You are a grown man, Giulio. A Senator of the Republic. Do you call your mummy to hold your hand before every big meeting, too? Should I send a nanny to wipe your arse?”
There is a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and I realise that I’ve hit a nerve. Good.
“Vaffanculo.” he spits.Fuck you.
The words hang in the pristine air of my study. Ah, there it is. The little spark of defiance from a cornered rodent. A smile, thin and cold, touches my lips. This is more like it. This is a language I understand far better than pathetic pleading.
“That,” I say softly, “is a very bold line to take from the safety of Rome. I would be impressed if it weren’t so pathetically transparent. You should say it to my face.”
A beat of silence. I can almost hear the blood draining from his face, the sudden, chilling realization of what his fear has just provoked. “What, what does that mean?”
I let the smirk bleed into my voice. “You wanted to see me so badly? To unburden your guilty conscience? Then you shall. Consider your wish granted. I’m flying out today. I’ll be in your office by tonight.”
“Tonight? What time?”
“Late,” I purr, savouring the word. “But you’ll be there. You will cancel your dinners, your mistresses, your votes. You will sit in your ornate little office, and you will wait for the entire day like a good little boy.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I terminate the call, the screen of the phone going dark. I place it gently on the vast, empty surface of the desk. The silence rushes back in, but now it is charged, pregnant with purpose.Some people, I think, staring at the immaculate lawn out the window,should be careful what they wish for. They might just get me.
The argument has left a metallic taste in my mouth. Incompetence is one thing; it can be managed, disciplined, or excised. But this, this sentimental panic, this desperate attempt to shift blame is a contagion. Giulio has become a liability. The meeting tonight will not be about damage control; it will be about termination.
As if summoned by the violence of my thoughts, the study door opens without a knock. Only one person has that privilege. My brother stands there, a mountain of a man in a suit that seems barely capable of containing him. He doesn’t speak, he simply enters and stands patiently before the desk, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression neutral.
I don’t look at him immediately. I swivel my chair back to the window, giving him my profile. “We need to go to Italy,” I say, my voice flat, all traces of the previous venom gone, replaced by the cool efficiency of command. “Urgently. Get the Jet ready.”
