Mateus meets my gaze. “Dead. The clean-up was thorough. There’s nothing left to connect it to us. It was a gas leak. A tragic accident by all accounts, but barely newsworthy.”
An accident. My entire security detail wiped out.
“The Grand Master?” I ask.
Mateus’s face looks more reassuring than I expect. “His brother is playing the part. No one is aware of the real situation.”
I narrow my eyes, is that possible? Is it really as easy as that? Can I simply wake up two weeks after an attack and the world not have imploded without me?
“I want my phone,” I demand.
Mateus doesn’t argue. He reaches into his inside pocket and produces my encrypted satellite phone. It feels alien and familiar in my bandaged hand. The screen is a blur. I blink, forcing my left eye to focus. This is the reality of my new existence. This weakness. This vulnerability. It is a poison in my veins, more corrosive than any pain.
But a King does not show weakness. A King projects power, even from a hospital bed.
I navigate the menus with a clumsy thumb. First call, the US. Chapter Lord, Charles. The phone rings once.
“Antonio,” Charles’s voice comes through, sharp with relief and thinly-veiled anxiety. “We were starting to worry. This radio silence is unlike you.”
“Worry is a luxury we can’t afford, Charles,” I say, my voice rasping but layered with steel. I sound like a man who has a cold, not a man who looks like melted wax. Image is everything. “My negotiations here are more complex than anticipated. I am entrusting you with the East Coast distribution. The shipments from Colombia are to be rerouted through Miami. You handle the logistics. I want a full report on Mateus’s desk by tomorrow night. No excuses.”
There’s a pause. I can almost hear him thinking, reassessing. My tone brokers no argument. “Understood, Antonio. It will be done.”
“See that it is.” I end the call without ceremony.
Next up is Magnus, the U.K. Chapter Lord.
The connection crackles. “Antonio. I’d heard you were unavailable.”
“Rumours are for gossips, Magnus. I am never unavailable.” I let the silence hang, a tool of intimidation that travels perfectly well over a satellite link. “I am sending you a present. An old acquaintance I’m sure you’ll remember. Vera Heseltine. I want her to remain in Oblivion but she does not mix with the general population, do you understand?”
“As you wish.” He says without a second of hesitation.
“She’s in a bad state, so feel free to amputate whatever limbs necessary, and I want it off the books. No records. No evidence. You can do what you like with her as long as no one knows she is there.”
I can practically hear the smile spreading across his face. “I know exactly how to handle such a situation.”
Of course he does, he did the same thing with her daughter, same thing with his first wife too.
“I want her face erased. I want to ensure that even if someone does discover her, they have no clue who she is.”
“Consider it done.”
I hang up, feeling a little relief that one potential fuck up has now been avoided. Mateus can see to the details, can ensure Vera is packaged and shipped. When I tell him that he simply nods, as if I’ve asked for a cup of tea and not something as complex as transporting a mutilated woman halfway across Europe undetected.
I make two more calls to the heads in Frankfurt and Dubai, issuing directives, shifting resources, tightening my grip. Each word is an effort, a spike of pain driven behind my eye. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down the bandages but with each command, I feel a little less like a victim and a little more like a King reclaiming his throne.
Mateus watches me, his expression unreadable. When I finally lower the phone, my hand is trembling with fatigue.
“You see?” He says gently. “We can manage this. You can control everything from this bed. No one will be any wiser. You need to rest now. Regain your strength.”
I nod, but the gesture is hollow. He’s right, and he’s wrong. We can maintain the illusion for a while longer, but strength? My strength was built on fear, on the certainty of my presence. That certainty is now a question mark. Rest is not a luxury I can afford for long.
He holds his hand out and in it, I see the tiny glint of red dangling down. How the fuck it survived I don’t know but it feels like a message, a sign from God that he approves of my methods, my choices, my intentions too.
I reach for it, securing it around my neck, and that semblance of control seems to calm me. I can do this. I can manage all of this.
I open the secure messaging app. Writing a message that is short, and yet typed with agonising slowness.‘Status update on the bitch.’
