Chapter 3 Antonio
The Prime Minister’s office is a study in muted power. Polished oak, the faint scent of beeswax and old paper fills my nostrils while the weight of centuries of tradition and British Empire press down from the oiled portraits on the walls.
I’m leaning forward, my hands steepled, explaining the delicate, fabricated economic implications of a new trade deal to a man technically elected by the people but in reality, we put him in charge.
The PM’s brow furrows in the right places as he pulls his spectacles down his face and stares at his notes like he might finally have a grasp on the words he’s written there.
It’s a dance, a performance, and I am its lead actor.
Poor Thomas Granville may be the powerhead for this country, but he does my bidding, he does exactly as I dictate.
“So this Bill…”
“All you need to do is read out the statement I provided.” I cut across him.
There’s no need to complicate things. Simple has always been the best course when it comes to this man.
In truth, when it’s come to all of them, all our leaders.
Be they Conservative or Liberal, it makes no actual difference because the Brethren continue on, holding all the strings of power either way.
“I’ve prepared a set of answers to any questions you may be asked.” I add. “Stick to the facts. Do not elaborate, and within a week this will be yesterday’s news….”
“And if the press require further explanation?” Gregory, his aide asks.
In my pocket, my phone begins to vibrate. Not a standard call. It’s the specific, insistent pulse I assigned to one man, and one man only. Our Grand Master.
I hold up a single finger, a gesture of apology so smooth it’s almost rehearsed. “A moment of your indulgence, Prime Minister. A matter I’m afraid that cannot wait.”
He nods, a little bemused and I rise, striding from the room with a calmness I do not feel. My security detail falls into step behind me, but I wave them back with a tiny, sharp gesture.
This is not for them.
In the hushed, carpeted hallway flanked by the watchful eyes of long-dead premiers, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Konstantine…” I say, my voice a low, controlled whisper.
What comes back is not the measured, ancient baritone of the Grand Master of the Brethren. It is a raw, ragged thing, stripped of all reason and dignity. It’s the sound of a soul being flayed alive.
“Antonio… Antonio, they… they…”
“Breathe, Konstantine,” I command, dropping my voice even lower while my own pulse begins to hammer a counter-rhythm against my ribs. “Calm yourself. Speak clearly.”
He sucks in a wet, shuddering gasp. “They desecrated her tomb. They broke the marble, scattered the flowers, they destroyed it all…”
I shut my eyes. The world, the polished hallway, the distant murmur of London traffic, the weight of the British government waiting for me in the next room narrows to a single, burning point of fury.
Ines. Of course. It is the only thing that could reduce the most powerful man in the world to this babbling, broken state.
And I know with a cold, absolute certainty, who ‘they’ are.
It’s been two months since Ines’s murder. Two months of me managing everything, handling not only my own workload but all things necessary to continue the mirage that our Grand Master is alive and well, and still completely compos mentis.
But the truth is far more damaging. The truth that no one but me is aware of is that Konstantine right now is a raving lunatic.
His mind is lost, his grief has taken over everything, and he can barely function most days.
If the Brethren realise that their leader is this unwell, there would be war. There would be chaos.
I rub my temples, soothing the fleeting feeling of panic that creeps in. I am in control, I am always in control. And no one will find out, because I can and I am managing everything.
Once Konstantine has his revenge, once Devin Blake has hunted down those responsible for Ines’s murder, then everything will be as it was. Our leader will be as he was.
And in the meantime, I have to continue doing everything I can to ensure no one, and I mean absolutely no one understands how close to complete catastrophe we all are.
“I want them punished, Antonio.” Konstantine’s voice spirals into a scream, tearing through the phone line. “I want their blood to water the earth around her stone. I want their heads. You hear me? You will sort this, you will make them suffer…”
His rage is a tidal wave, and for a moment, I am drowning in it.
I am about to reply, to impose order on his chaos, to tell him to lock down the estate and that I am on my way.
The words are on my tongue.
And then the world explodes.
It’s not loud over the phone. It’s a series of sharp, percussive cracks. Pop. Pop-pop.
A sound I know intimately; a sound that is utterly, horrifyingly out of place in the sacred quiet of our Grand Master’s gardens.
The scream is cut off. There’s a thick, wet gurgle. The sound of a man drowning on dry land. My hand tightens on the phone, the polished metal groaning in my grip. I am frozen in the hallway, a statue of ice and fire.
No. No. No. No.
Scuffling. A grunt. A shout for ‘medic’, and then a new voice picks up the phone. Young. Cold. Laced with a mocking deference that makes my stomach clench.
“Hello?
It’s clearly one of the guards, one of the few men we trust to be around Konstantine.
“What the fuck is going on?” I snarl, forgetting myself for an instance, forgetting where I am, and how many ears are listening in on this conversation.
“There’s been an incident. The Grand Master. He’s been shot. It’s not good.”
The ice in my veins spreads. I can see it; Konstantine gurgling, bleeding out. The images flash, unbidden and devastating. The foundation of my world, of the world, is cracking open beneath my damned feet.
“Apply pressure.” I bark back. “Do not let him die. Do you understand me? I am airborne in ten minutes.”
The silence in the hallway is absolute as I end the call. I take one breath. Two. I school my features into a mask of mild, professional regret and then I turn and walk back into the study as if nothing is amiss.
The PM looks up with a question in his eyes. I offer a thin, apologetic smile, not that he needs one. “My deepest apologies, Prime Minister. A critical family emergency on the continent requires my immediate attention. I assume you have everything you need? My office will be in touch.”
I don’t wait for his response.
I am already moving, my security detail converging on me as I stride towards the exit, towards the waiting car, towards my jet that will carry me to another unfolding bloody nightmare.
The performance is over.
The real work, the bloody, brutal work of survival, continues.
The private hospital is a temple of antiseptic and anxiety. The air hums with the silent scream of machinery and dread.
I pace the short, worn length of the vinyl floor outside the operating theatre like a caged animal in a five-thousand-pound suit.
Each swing of the double doors makes my heart stutter. The rational part of my brain, the strategist, is locked down. All that is left right now is a raw, primal fear.
If he dies… the thought is a splinter driven deep under my fingernail.
If he dies, it is over.
Everything is over.
Everything is fucked.
The Brethren is not an organization; it is an organism, and Konstantine is its heart. I am the brain, the will, the fist. But without the heart, the body dies.
It doesn’t matter how much power I wield, how much control I have; Konstantine is the headpiece.
Without him the Esau will swarm, the ancient covenants will shatter, and the delicate, invisible architecture of control we have built over half a millennia will collapse into dust and chaos.
The sound of measured footsteps pulls me from the abyss. Devin Blake of all people approaches. I tilt my head, curious as to why the fuck he is here in America when he is meant to be in Eastern Europe hunting down leads.
His face is a neutral mask, giving me nothing but his eyes, his eyes are alive with a cold fire. There is no love lost between us, not that I can truly blame him. If I were him, I would not forgive the people who betrayed his wife Paitlyn either.
He stops a few feet away, giving a curt, almost insolent nod. “Antonio.”
“Blake,” I say, my voice gravelly from the long flight and suppressed rage. “Tell me everything.”
“It was a trap,” he says, his tone flat, factual, but I hear the subtle accusation buried within it.
The accusation that this is, somehow, my fault.
“A very simple, very effective one. The desecration was just the bait. They knew he would come running, and he did. Screaming her name. We could barely keep up.”
The image is a knife twist. Konstantine, reduced to a madman sprinting through his own gardens, utterly vulnerable. Christ, if anyone saw, if anyone knew…
“And your men?” I ask, the question a low growl. “Where were his guards? How did the Esau get in and out so easily?”
A muscle ticks in Blake’s jaw. “Apparently, he outran his detail in his rage. They were twenty seconds behind him. Twenty seconds was all it took. As for getting in, they had inside knowledge. They knew our weak points. They knew our blind spots. They got in easily enough.” He allows a thin, cruel smile to touch his lips. “But they didn’t get out so easily.”
I stop pacing and turn to face him fully. “Explain.”
“We caught four of them. They’re in the old stable block. Secure.” His eyes meet mine, a silent challenge. “They’re alive. For now.”
The implication hangs in the sterile air. Four prisoners, four sources of information. Four opportunities for retribution. It’s the first piece of good news, a single, solid stone in the shifting quicksand of this disaster.
Before I can respond, the operating room doors swing open. A surgeon emerges, pulling his cap off, his face etched with a fatigue that has nothing to do with sleep. He looks from me to Blake, instinctively understanding who holds the authority.
I step forward. “Well?”
“He’s stable. For now,” the surgeon says, his voice cautious. “We’ve stopped the bleeding, repaired what we can, but the damage is extensive. The bullet nicked the aortic valve. It’s shredded. If he’s to live, he needs a new heart. A transplant. Without it, he might last a week on the machines....”
The world tilts again. A week.
“If you had a heart,” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet. “What are the odds he would he survive the surgery?”
The surgeon blinks, thrown by the specificity.
“His vitals are strong, considering. The trauma is localized. Yes, if we had a viable donor heart, I believe he would survive the procedure. The issue is finding one. The matching, the logistics, the timing, it’s a question of days, and we don’t have that kind of… ”
“Prep him for surgery,” I interrupt, my tone leaving no room for debate. It is not a request; it is a decree. “Have him ready to go into the theatre. You will have a new heart by sundown. A perfect match.”
The surgeon stares at me, his mouth slightly agape, caught between professional protocol and the sheer, unquestionable authority in my voice. He simply nods dumbly, and retreats back through the doors.
I turn to Blake. His expression is unreadable, but I see the calculation in his eyes. He is wondering if I’m mad, or if I possess a power he hasn’t even imagined.
“You,” I say, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You will stay here. You will not leave this corridor, you will not let anyone near that operating theatre that you do not know personally. If he dies because you looked the other way, Blake, your death will make the Esau’s look merciful. Do you understand me?”
He nods with a look of utter contempt. “I understand, and I don’t need to be told how to do my fucking job.”
I don’t offer another word. I turn on my heel and stride down the corridor, pulling my phone from my pocket.
In my head, I run through a list of names, people whose existence is a secret. People who are a perfect biological match for Konstantine. One of them is about to have the privilege of making the ultimate contribution to our cause.