Chapter 52 Antonio
“They’re coming.”
I frown at those words, turning to look at Mateus’s panicked face in the doorway.
“Close up the house.” I instruct. “Ensure as many of the staff know to get out as possible. You know what else to do.”
Mateus nods. “What about her?” He says pointing to Grace, who’s standing, frozen by the window, as if she thinks any sudden movement might just condemn her.
She’s a pale silhouette against the dark glass, watching the first distant, flickering lights of the conflict.
A beautiful, broken doll propped up in the corner of my fucked up world.
As I look at her, her eyes dare to meet mine and they’re silently begging me.
“This one stays with me.” I reply, clicking my fingers in a sharp, precise sound that cuts through the tension in the room. As if I’d leave her, as if I’d simply hand over their darling little trophy that easily.
She walks silently, obediently, gliding across the Persian rug like a ghost in a silk chemise and I pull her in, placing my hand on her perfect round arse as a declaration of ownership. I can smell the faint, clean scent of her soap undercut by the sharp, metallic tang of fear. It’s intoxicating.
“Ready the car. Have the boy put in it. We’ll be there shortly.” I add.
I feel her tense further as he leaves but whatever thoughts she has in her head, she keeps them to herself.
I rise and walk to a chair by the fireplace where a cashmere jumper the colour of a stormy sky is draped. It is impossibly soft, and I hold it up for her to slip on. “Arms out.”
She complies, a marionette with my hands on the strings. I guide the sweater over her head, careful not to muss her hair. My fingers, as they brush the nape of her neck, feel the frantic rabbit-pulse of her heartbeat and it makes me smile.
I am putting a jumper on my favourite possession because I don’t want her to catch a chill while we escape the holy war raging at my gates.
The absurdity of the courtesy is not lost on me.
It is the ultimate expression of control, to be meticulous in the face of chaos.
To care for something that is just a pet, while around me the house burns down.
I take her hand, striding to the door. Her fingers are ice-cold and lie limply in mine. “Time to go.” She clutches my arm with her other hand, her feet stumbling over the rug with the pace I’ve set.
We move through the corridors of my home, a fortress that has stood since the thirteenth century.
The walls are lined with portraits of my ancestors, kings, condottieri, a cardinal or two, all of them stern-faced men who understood that power is not given; it is taken and held through sheer, unadulterated will.
Their eyes seem to follow us, not with judgment, but with approval.
Afterall, this is just another chapter, another turn of fortunes wheel.
The sound of the assault is clearer now, even deep within the stone belly of the castle. Not just shouts, but the distinct pop-pop-pop of gunfire, and a deeper, more ominous thump that might be explosives.
Mateus was not exaggerating.
They are getting bolder.
We exit onto the east terrace. The early morning air is indeed cold, and it smells of diesel and distant fire.
The black Range Rover is there, engine running, a beast of metal and potential energy.
My driver is at the wheel and another of my men is in the passenger seat, an assault rifle held upright between his knees.
I open the rear door and guide Grace in. She clambers inside, with clumsy, frightened movements, and then she freezes.
Ezra is already strapped in, his little features screwed up into such a serious look, while Mateus sits beside him.
Her eyes dart to the boy and back to me but I don’t give her time to ask questions, I merely shove her over and get in.
As the door shuts, we speed off and she lets out a gasp of air, turning to stare at the castle now rapidly disappearing behind us.
“Where are we going?” She asks.
I shake my head in reply, my focus, my attention all on the top of the hill in the distance. If they get there before we do, if they get between us and the chopper all of this is over.
I imagine they’re already hiding out at the airstrip, waiting for me to be stupid enough to show up there. I doubt they know about this little escape route, but I won’t assume anything until I know for certain.
My heart pounds in my chest. Adrenaline makes my feel exhilarated. Death has always been something I’ve skirted, danced alongside. Afterall, how can you truly live if you don’t understand what dying is?
When we come to a stop I quickly open the door, and Mateus ushers Ezra out from one side while I yank Grace from the other, barely giving her time to get her seatbelt undone. She cries out and I shove my hand over her mouth, afraid the noise might carry.
Ezra is lifted into the chopper before Mateus runs to grab the bags. I push Grace in, and our driver follows after me. If he stays, they’ll kill him, we all know that.
The pilot murmurs something in greeting and I grunt back, wondering why the fuck we’re still here, on the ground. Ezra has been in enough helicopters to know how to put the belt on, but Grace doesn’t have a clue and I reach across, securing hers while she stares at me.
When we take off, that tension in my chest seems to ease. I stare down, seeing the forest, the castle, the cars too. It looks like they bought an army. The full spectacle of carnage is laid out below us like a detailed map.
My home. My castle. The place where I was born, where Mateus was born, where my mother was born and her mother before her, back through twenty generations. Flames lick at the old stables, and the courtyard is a chaotic swirl of battling ants.
I can see the main gate now; it’s been shattered, blown inward. It would have taken serious explosives to do such damage, and I must say I’m impressed.
A profound silence settles over me inside the thunderous roar of the helicopter. This is not a disaster, this is not a defeat. This is merely a turn of the board. The castle is a piece, a significant one rich with history and sentiment, but a piece nonetheless.
And sometimes, to win the game, you must sacrifice a piece.
Fate is spinning the roulette wheel again, and the ball has landed on black this time instead of red. The loss is aesthetic. The game itself is what matters.
My heart is thumping in a hard, steady, exhilarating drum against my ribs.
This is it.
This is the feeling I crave, the reason I play this game on such a grand, dangerous scale.
It is the proximity to absolute ruin, the brush of death’s cloak against my shoulder. Fear is not something to be conquered or avoided; it is a drug. It is the ultimate proof of life, the screaming evidence that my existence is not some mundane, trivial thing.
Grace gasps again, covering her mouth in shock and I narrow my eyes, seeing what she’s spotted.
Smoke.
I snort at the irony. Stupid fucks. They can burn down every house I have, and yet it won’t stop me.
As I glance back down, I can see people being dragged out. Guards, servants, all my people being executed one by one.
Grace gasps, covering her mouth in horror. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that these people are expendable, that their purpose in life is to fit my needs, whatever they are.
Something whizzes past the chopper. The pilot shouts out, swerving the thing and we climb rapidly while darting to the left at such an angle that we all slam into the side.
“They’re shooting at us.” Mateus says.
“Get us out of here.” I order. The Esau may be unaware of who is onboard, that there’s a life far more precious than mine, but I’ll be damned if I’m the reason it ends.
I look at Grace, and her entire body is rigid.
A statue of pure, unadulterated panic. A small, soundless whimper escapes her lips.
I find it utterly amusing. Adorable, even.
Her fear is so simple, so visceral. She is afraid of dying.
I am enthralled by the idea of it. We are, in this moment, living in two completely different universes, yet I hold the leash to both.
I don’t say a word to her. There is no comfort to offer, and the sight of her terror is a private entertainment I wish to prolong.
The shooting stops as we soar higher, leaving the fire and the fury as a diminishing diorama far below. The castle becomes a child’s toy, then a sketch, then nothing at all, swallowed by the dark Mediterranean landscape.
I let out a long, slow breath. The immediate thrill recedes, leaving behind a crystal-clear, razor-sharp focus. I lean my head back against the rest and shut my eyes.
They were ahead of me this time. They found a weakness, a leak I clearly hadn’t plugged, and they moved with a coordination and force that is new for them. They have been the scrappy underdog for so long, nipping at my heels. Now, they’ve drawn blood.
I should be furious. I should be plotting immediate, overwhelming retaliation, but I’m not. I’m amused.
This makes it interesting. Their boldness is a gift, because boldness leads to arrogance. Arrogance leads to overextension, and overextension leads to fatal, beautiful mistakes that I can leverage to my advantage.
I sit in the dark behind my eyelids, and I begin to plan. It feels like the board has been reset. New pieces are in play, and the stakes are higher. I can feel a smile, cold and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, spreading across my face.
Let them have their night.
Let them burn the tapestries, and smash the family heirlooms.
I have the things that truly matter. I have my life, my mind, my will. I have my precious pet, shivering in cashmere beside me. And I have the one thing they lack: the patience to wait for the perfect moment to strike back.
The game is far from over. In fact, it has just become delicious.