Chapter 9 Antonio
It’s raining. It’s always raining in Paris in April. I don’t know why so many people consider this place so damn romantic, when most days it’s a mess of grey tones and sodden, dirty, streets.
The air here is thick with the perfume of stale cigarette smoke fighting for dominance with the sharp bite of the spring wind.
It cuts through my wool coat as I sit here, elbows on the scarred wood of this sidewalk cafe table.
Tourists wander past, cameras clicking like metallic insects, utterly oblivious to the currents beneath the surface.
They’re here for the Eiffel Tower, the romance of the Seine, the carefully curated view of Paris.
I on the other hand, am here less for the beauty, more for the shadows the beauty casts.
A waiter slides my coffee to the left, black and steaming, a small chocolate croissant nestling beside it.
I take a slow sip, the warmth a welcome counterpoint to the cool wind.
I can’t entirely deny the comfort of this anonymity, the open cafe table serving as a temporary armoury against the whispers and stares that inevitably follow me.
I pull out my phone, check my messages, check to see if there are any updates.
Ezra, Konstantine’s son has been in my house for just over two months now.
He’s clearly traumatised given he witnessed his mother’s murder.
He doesn’t speak. All the words he used to babble incessantly are gone.
He just stares off at the walls as if he understands all the secrets they contain, all the shadows that are lurking there.
I let out a sigh as I read the message his governess has sent, telling me there’s nothing to worry about. Everything is apparently in hand.
I wonder if that’s the case with my little firecracker too.
If she is grateful for the gifts I bestowed on her.
I bring up the link to the live feed, watching on my screen as the tiny figure sits on a bed, as she moves about, as she exists within the four walls I technically had wrapped around her.
When she picks up the book, it brings a smile to my face.
And yet, she is distracting. Especially now.
Perhaps it is a good thing I have to wait a few years before she is mine. It gives me time to focus on not just manipulating her but ensuring she will be safe when she does fall neatly into my arms.
In the chair opposite me, a man sits down with a decisive, almost heavy thud. I glance up immediately, and then freeze when I see who it is.
If this is not proof of how much I need those years of focus too, then I do not know what is.
He looks older now, the kind of old that’s bleached the colour from his hair and drawn deep lines around his eyes. There’s a slackness to his shoulders I didn’t know existed, a weariness etched deeper than mere age. Taylor. An old comrade, once upon a time.
A slow smile spreads across my face, genuine recognition warring with the cold calculation buzzing beneath the surface.
Oh, I know why he’s here, why he’s suddenly appeared after all this time. He’s here to kill me.
He squints back, his eyes searching my face like he’s trying to find a ghost or validate a rumour.
“Taylor,” I say, tucking my phone carefully back into the pocket of my coat.
He doesn’t smile back. His lips purse, and he leans forward slightly, his voice low and rough. “You’re easier to find than I thought. You getting sloppy in your old age?”
I raise an eyebrow slightly, tapping a finger lightly on the ceramic cup.
“Not exactly old.” I reply. I’m forty-six for fucksake.
That’s almost a decade younger than he is.
“And why wouldn’t I be?” It’s a question, not an accusation.
Why would I have any need to vanish? The shadows here are plenty, but staying in the light feels necessary sometimes. Less risky, perhaps.
His jaw tightens. “You’re a traitor,” he hisses, the words spit out like venom from a snake.
Traitor? That’s a fine description for someone who’s saved his arse, saved all the Esau’s arses more times than they can count.
I flick my fingers towards the waiter, summoning him back without missing a beat. Better to keep composure, control. Don’t want Taylor here to think I’m jittery. I smooth my hands on the table, projecting calm.
The waiter arrives, and I give the order for more coffee in perfect French.
Taylor’s eyes narrow further. “Arrogant fuck.” He mutters but he doesn’t contradict me, does he? Maybe he needs the caffeine more than I do.
The waiter disappears, leaving the two of us in a bubble of stale air. Taylor takes a deep breath, running a hand over his face, messing up his already drastically receding hairline. He watches me, this once friend now stranger who once knew his every secret.
“We can at least have a coffee and be civil about this” I say, putting particular emphasis on the ‘civil’. Afterall he’s the apparent executioner here, does the convict not get to choose their final meal?
“Whatever you wish,” Taylor cuts across, his voice rising slightly.
“But just so you know, you won’t make it ten feet from this table.
” He seems to physically revel in the thought, his skin tightening as he pulls his lips back to reveal his yellow toothed grin.
“We’re everywhere. Every corner, every other man is one of us… ”
I shrug, a small, dismissive movement. He’s right of course, in a way.
The Esau are everywhere, but the idea of being trapped by my own past, by ghosts like him…
it grates. I take another long sip of coffee, letting the heat travel down my throat.
“Then,” I say, my voice level, “I guess I’d better enjoy my last coffee, wouldn’t you say? ” The implication hanging in the air.
Taylor scowls, just as the waiter appears with his own drink.
“Leave us.” He barks, as if the man was going to start listing off the specialities.
He clutches his cup and takes a deliberately slow, deep drink. The coffee does little to soothe the sudden heat I see rise in his face.
I set my own cup down carefully. “Tell me about Ezekial.”
The question seems to physically knock the wind out of him.
His body goes rigid. He stares straight ahead, down towards the Champs-élysées, his mind already miles away.
“Nothing,” he whispers, the word barely audible above the cafe chatter.
“I won’t give you anything. Not a fucking word. Not a crumb.”
“If I really am a ‘dead man’, as you so aptly put it,” I counter, letting the irony of his earlier certainty wash over me, “then what does it matter what I get from you now?”
Taylor shakes his head, slamming his fist down hard enough that the crockery rattles and jumps.
“You’re still trying to twist everything to suit yourself, Antonio.
” His voice drops to a near whisper, but the threat is clear.
He gestures emphatically, almost spitting the words.
“But you seem to have forgotten you already lost the board. The game is done.”
My own posture shifts, mirroring his sudden tension but for different reasons. I stand up smoothly, deliberately folding my napkin in that same calm manner. “Perhaps you are right.” I reply. “Perhaps it is time we both stop pretending.”
Taylor’s eyes lock onto mine. How many times has he played this over in his head?
How many times has he imagined this? In his dreams, did I play the surprised fool?
Did I always try to bluster my way out? Or did I choose violence?
Did I choose to try and fight my way to freedom?
Does my calm acceptance of my fate ruin the neat little template he had for how this would all go down?
He opens his mouth, and then the coffee hits.
It’s subtle at first. A tightening in his jaw, a slight pause in his breathing.
But then his hand starts to shake, violently.
He clutches the edge of the table, his knuckles white.
His face, once a mask of weary defiance, crumples under the onslaught.
Sweat beads on his forehead, his eyes roll back slightly, and his body goes rigid, then collapses.
He slams his face down onto the scarred wood of the table with a sickening thud, his body stilling almost instantly. The coffee cup falls, spilling its contents and it drip, drip, drips onto the stark white tablecloth like a stain that cannot be washed out.
Silence. The sudden, absolute quiet of the moment is almost as loud as the commotion that follows.
Heads turn, faces pale, murmurs ripple through the cafe patrons. Men in nondescript dark suits, faces grim and impassive, move with unnerving speed from the surrounding tables and the shadows beyond, falling into place around us like practiced automatons.
I can see them; all the demons, all the Esau mercenaries suddenly appear, suddenly come out to play.
A gun points right at my head. Before it can go off, a man barrels into the would-be assassin.
I stand mute, still, silent as a statue, and watch as the chaos unfolds around me. They call me the kingmaker but the truth is, I’m far more than that. Far fucking greater. The Esau as they are now have no idea what I am, what place I have carved for myself in this world.
I am not the kingmaker. I am the fucking king himself.
I lean down, grabbing the remnants of the croissant and wipe the smear of someone’s blood off it before I pop the delicate pastry into my mouth.
Calm is the impression I give off but chaos, chaos is where I’ve always excelled. Chaos is where I do best.