Page 104 of Decimation

I watch Antonio’s eyes sweep over the guards. There are four of them. All highly trained, all armed. I see the calculation in his gaze, the cold, clear thought of how he could kill me. I see it, and I marvel at how well I’ve already convinced him.

Besides, we both know what would happen if he does make a move, if he kills me, the guards’ bullets would tear into him a microsecond later. He would die here, on this pristine gravel surrounded by the stink of jasmine, and his dear, pregnant little wife would still be in their hands. His death would be a footnote, and theirs would be a tragedy of his own making. A final, ultimate failure.

I lean back, sighing to myself, shaking my head. “Your predicament is regrettable, but it is of your own making. The solution, however, is simple.”

“Simple?” Antonio echoes like he doesn’t believe it.

“We give them a death.” A cruel smile plays on my lips. “We have a ready-made substitute, do we not? We give them my brother, we let Lazarus be the sacrifice for us. In return, we not only get your whore of a wife back but we destroy them, we destroy the last of the Esau.”

“How?” Antonio replies.

“The Brethren will believe me dead, and in the carnage that unfolds, my men can take their vengeance. It will be a final purge. Every traitorous bastard will reveal themselves, and they will be gutted in their sleep.”

“There isn’t time for that, they’ve already mutilated her once,” Antonio says, taking a step forward, and the guards shift their weight just a little. He ignores them, his eyes locked on me. “They are not bureaucrats. They are butchers. It will not take much for them to lose patience and carve my baby right out of her womb and send that to me next. Your brother’s corpse will be cold by the time their package arrives.”

I look away from him, towards the laughing cherubs on the fountain. “What is your alternative, Antonio? You will not kill me. You are too pragmatic to die for such a gesture.”

I see the way the metaphorical knife twists. I see the way that right now, I have him so tightly in my trap that he cannot do anything but dance to my exact tune. Poor bastard, I’d almost feel sorry for him, except he’s the one holding things up right now. He’s the one slowing everything down.

“I will consider your plan,” Antonio lies.

“Do not consider for long, Antonio,” I say, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “The Esau’s patience, as you note, is finite. And so is mine.”

I watch as he walks away, see the way his body is hunched over in defeat. It’s not that hard. Why is he making this so difficult? All he has to do, is do what he’s told and then we all win.

I flex my hands, knowing it’s going to be at least another week before I can see Leandra. I’ve been hauled up here, in this villa, playing my part to perfection. I’ve been meeting with the other Guardians, sitting through meetings, acting exactly as Konstantine would. All the while he has been locked up in the basement, blissfully unaware that his days are numbered.

Keeping him drugged has ensured he cannot look for Leandra. Keeping him drugged has ensured that all of this plays out my way.

I just need to hold on a little longer.

Konstantine sits across from me in the leather armchair that used to belong to our father. He is swimming in it. The last few years have eaten away at him like rust on iron, leaving behind something hollow and corroded. His hands shake when he lifts his glass. The tremor is new, or perhaps I am only now allowing myself to notice.

Tonight is his last night, our last night together. I thought it would be prudent to bring him around, give him a send-off so to speak, and to interrogate the bastard over the last of his little secrets.

“You had another episode,” I tell him as he blinks rapidly at his surroundings. “Three days ago. You don’t remember it, but you had to be sedated.”

His eyes find mine across the rim of his whiskey glass. There is something floating in them, something unmoored and drifting. I have seen that look before. I have seen it in the eyes of men who have spent too long in solitary confinement, men who have forgotten the shape of their own souls. But this man never had a soul, or if he did, he sold it to the devil a long time ago.

“I don’t remember,” he says.

“No. You wouldn’t, but you’re back now. You’re in control.” I lean forward, letting the firelight catch my face. Letting him see the sincerity I have practiced for weeks. “That’s what matters. You’re back, and you’re in control.”

He accepts this. Of course he accepts this. The alternative would be to acknowledge that his mind is a ship breaking apart on rocks he cannot see, and my brother has never been good at acknowledging things that might undo him. Instead he drinks, and I watch him drink while the clock on the mantle counts out the seconds of his final night on earth with mechanical indifference.

Tomorrow, I will kill him.

No. That is not quite right. Tomorrow, I will have him killed. There is a difference, though I suspect it will feel the same when I close my eyes and see his face. Which I will. Until the last vestiges of my own hate finally fade away.

“I wonder if he would be proud of me.” He says suddenly.

“Who?” I reply.

“Our father.”

He rolls the glass between his palms, staring into the amber liquid as if it might contain an answer.

“If he could see what I’ve built, what I’ve maintained. The alliances I’ve forged. The enemies I’ve buried. Would he look at my rule and see it as a success?”