It’s a trap. Even a child can see it. They have no intention of a trade. They will kill me the moment I show my face, and then they will kill Grace, but the note is right. Time is finite, and the image of another box containing another piece of her, a finger, an eye, is already searing itself into my brain.
I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s a trap.
I have to go. The thought of her, alone and in pain, waiting for me is a more certain death than any bullet.
I am already moving, my grief hardening into a cold, sharp fury. I yank open the top drawer of my desk and pull out the pistol concealed there. The weight of it is a comfort, a promise even.
The study door opens.
“Antonio? What’s all the shouting about? I heard a crash.”
Mateus. Dressed in a silk dressing gown, his hair impeccably styled even at this hour. He looks concerned, his brow furrowed in that practiced, brotherly way. My brother. The man I shared a childhood with. The man I fucking trusted.
And in that single, crystalline moment, everything snaps into place. The final piece of the nightmare clicks home.
The rage that explodes in me is pure and absolute. It whites out the grief, the fear, everything. It is a cleansing fire.
“Mateus,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes flicking from my face to the gun in my hand, to the open box on the desk. He takes a step closer, peers at it. His face pales. “Jesus, is that…?”
“They sent a message,” I say, not taking my eyes off him.
“That is monstrous,” he whispers, putting a hand to his chest. “Antonio, you mustn’t do anything rash. This is clearly a trap. You need to think. We need to plan.”
“Plan?” I let out a short bark of a laugh that has no humour in it. “There is no ‘we’, Mateus. Not anymore.”
“What are you talking about? I’m your brother.”
“My brother,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash. “My brother, who was so concerned for my safety. Who was so worried about my attachments.” I take a step toward him. “You gave her the cyanide, Mateus, didn’t you?”
His act falters for a fraction of a second. A flicker in his eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth. It’s all the confirmation I need.
“What? Antonio, you’re not thinking clearly. The stress…”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I bellow, before sending half the contents of the desk crashing to the floor.
His mask of brotherly concern melts away, replaced by a cold, calculating defiance. He knows the game is up. He straightens his back, his lip curling. “You were becoming weak, Antonio. A liability. That whore was making you soft. You were putting us all at risk for a pretty cunt.”
Every word is a nail in his coffin. “So you sold her? To them? To get to me?”
“I did what was necessary for the family. Our family.” he spits. “Something you’ve forgotten how to do. You were so busy playing the lovesick puppy, you couldn’t see the threat right under your nose. I was saving you from yourself.”
The sheer, staggering arrogance of it, the betrayal so profound, leaves me momentarily speechless.
“You gutless piece of shit,” I breathe. The gun feels like an extension of my arm. “You are lucky, Mateus. You are so unbelievably lucky.”
A smug, foolish light enters his eyes. He mistakes my controlled tone for hesitation. He thinks his blood still means something. “Luck? Antonio, be reasonable. We can still salvage this. Together. We can use this.”
“You’re lucky,” I repeat, cutting him off, “that I don’t have the time to make you suffer. You’re lucky that every second I spend with you is a second she is in their hands, terrified and in pain. You deserve to die slowly, Mateus. You deserve to beg. You deserve to have pieces of you sent back in a box.”
The smugness vanishes, replaced by stark, piss-your-pants fear. He sees it in my eyes. The decision is made. “Antonio, wait. It wasn’t like that. I can explain. Everything I did, I did out of loyalty. Even this now proves it, it proves how obsessed you are. You’re not thinking rationally, you’re not…”
He takes a step back, hands raised. It’s the final, cowardly gesture that seals his fate.
I don’t wait, I don’t let him utter another lying word. I raise the pistol and pull the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. A single, precise round, right between his widening eyes. The back of his skull explodes in a grisly flower against the doorframe. He slumps to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut, his silk robe pooling around him in a parody of elegance.
