Chapter 53 Grace
Istare out, watching the changing landscape beneath me as we fly over the mountainside. I’m half convinced that at any moment someone is going to point at us with one of those missile things and blast us out of the sky.
Would I welcome that? Would I welcome death so easily?
No, despite wanting it, despite yearning for an escape, I realise now that I’m faced with my own mortality; I’m not ready to die yet. I’ve barely begun living.
I don’t say anything as we land at a private airstrip. I’m ushered out after the boy and escorted onto the waiting jet. It’s bigger than one we used before. Sleeker too.
Inside, a smiling lady in a prim dress tells Antonio that everything is as requested.
He grunts back, his hand over the boy’s shoulders as he tells him to go sit at the back.
I watch them again, wondering if he might be Antonio’s child but the way they interact, the way Antonio manages him, it doesn’t feel particularly fatherly. But who the hell is he? And why would Antonio be taking care of him?
“Come.”
His voice makes me jump as he turns back for me. I allow him to walk me down the aisle, to where there’s a space partitioned off. There’s a bed made up, and a part of me would love to crawl into it and just hide.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he quietly shuts the door, giving us some privacy.
His jaw clenches, and for the first time I realise he looks exhausted. Utterly exhausted.
“America.” He says after a pause.
I don’t need to follow that up with anything.
I know where we’re headed, who we’re headed to.
There’s only one reason we’d be going to America.
My stomach twists with the knowledge of what could be waiting for me, but then, I’m with Antonio.
As long as I keep my mouth shut and play along, he’ll keep me safe – won’t he?
“How long is the flight?” I reply.
“Eight hours give or take.” He states.
I nod, and before I can think not to I lift my hand, cupping his cheek.
Feeling the prickle of stubble in my palm, feeling the way his skin feels so different where it’s mangled and raised.
His body tenses, his breathing seems to stop.
Does he think this is some trick? If it is, I don’t know the details of it.
“Can we sleep?” I ask.
He grunts back but he lets me lead him the few steps to the bed, lets me pull him down till he’s lying on it and I slide his shoes off, slide his jacket off, making him as comfortable as I can before I rest beside him.
Neither of us shuts our eyes, we just lie there staring at one another.
“I’m sorry about your home.” I whisper, feeling like I need to do something, anything to break the tension.
“Homes can be rebuilt. Some things are more precious than simple bricks.” He replies, brushing my hair back from my face, and I wonder for a moment if I can kid myself into believing those words are about me.
That I’m the precious one. I’m the thing he can’t bear to be without.
The dull, deafening roar of the jet engines fades to a high-pitched whine, then to silence. The sudden quiet is somehow more unnerving than the noise.
My heart is thumping so loudly I’m surprised no one can hear it, it’s a sensation that has become as constant as my own breath. I press my forehead against the cool, double-paned oval of the window, my breath fogging a small circle on the glass.
We have landed in America, but the America spreading out before me isn’t the one from movies or tourist brochures. It’s not a landscape of liberty, but one of imminent confinement.
The tarmac is a sprawling black sea, shimmering with midday heat, but it’s not empty.
It’s occupied. A fleet of identical obsidian-black SUVs, perhaps a dozen of them, are arranged in a perfect line.
They look less like cars and more like armoured beetles, sleek and impenetrable.
Men in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses stand rigidly beside each vehicle, their postures erect, their hands clasped in front of them.
There are no friendly waves, no signs of welcome.
This is a display of raw, unapologetic power.
A tremor, cold and sharp, works its way up my spine as my fingers tremble where they’re still resting on the window. This is not a security detail; it’s an occupation force.
I feel Antonio’s gaze on me before I turn.
He’s already unbuckled his seatbelt, rising with that effortless, predatory grace that is so uniquely his.
He stands in the aisle, straightening the cuffs of his impeccably tailored jacket.
His eyes meet mine and they hold no warmth, no reassurance.
He sees the fear on my face, it must be as plain as the daylight outside, but he offers nothing.
No comforting word, no squeeze of the hand.
He simply observes my terror as if it were a mildly interesting weather phenomenon.
A storm he knows will pass, or one he simply doesn’t care about.
His silence is a confirmation of every dread-filled thought swirling in my head.
This is real. This is happening.
I cannot escape this place, I cannot outrun the Brethren here. I have no money, no connections. I have nothing.
The cabin door hisses open, and the sterile, cooled air of the jet is invaded by the hot, fuel-scented breeze of the American airfield.
The sound of it is a low, hungry whisper.
One of the suited men from the tarmac, older, with a face like weathered granite, appears at the doorway.
He gives a curt, wordless nod to Antonio.
“Come, Pup,” Antonio says, his voice flat. It’s not an invitation; it’s a command.
My legs feel like water as I stand. I follow him to the door, the short walk feeling like a mile.
The sunlight hits me, bright and unforgiving.
The men on the tarmac don’t move, but I feel the weight of their hidden eyes behind those sunglasses, tracking my every step.
Antonio descends the stairs ahead of me, his posture arrogantly relaxed as if he owns this stretch of tarmac, this entire country.
He doesn’t lead me to the first SUV, or even the second.
We are ushered towards a smaller, but no less intimidating sedan parked slightly apart from the main convoy.
The door is held open for me. I duck inside, the plush leather interior smelling new and expensive.
Antonio slides in beside me, his presence filling the space, making it feel claustrophobic.
The door thuds shut with a sound of finality, locking us in.
Through the tinted windows, I watch the spectacle outside.
Mateus escorts the boy off, taking him to a different car and he’s struggles to clamber in, so Mateus has to lift him before buckling his seatbelt.
I find my voice, though it’s little more than a dry rasp. “Where is he going? The boy?”
Antonio shifts his head, just enough to fix me with a sidelong glance. His dark eyes are flat, devoid of any readable emotion. There is no explanation, no placation. There is only a look that is as sharp and dismissive as a slap.
It is none of your business. The message is delivered without a single word spoken.
I am a tool, a component in a machine whose workings I am not privileged to understand. I look away, my cheeks burning with a mixture of fear and humiliation, and stare out while my question is left to wither in the sterile air.
The motorcade begins to move with choreographed precision.
The SUVs peel away from the jet, falling into a formation around us, a moving fortress on wheels.
Our own driver, another silent, grim-faced man, pulls our sedan into the centre of this protective, or imprisoning, cocoon.
We glide smoothly away from the airport, leaving the ordinary world behind.
We drive for what feels like both an instant and an eternity.
The landscape changes from industrial outskirts to dense woodland, the road winding through hills lush with late summer green.
The only sounds are the hum of the engine, and the faint hiss of the air conditioning.
Antonio stares straight ahead, his profile a mask of impassive stone.
After another twenty minutes, the convoy slows.
A heavy, ornate iron gate flanked by high stone walls slides open silently.
We proceed down a long, immaculately paved driveway lined with ancient oak trees, their branches forming a dense canopy overhead.
The house reveals itself gradually, a sprawling monument of white stone and glass, rising from manicured lawns that stretch out like emerald carpets.
It’s a palace, a vision of obscene wealth that steals the air from my lungs.
The motorcade splits, the SUVs peeling off towards what looks like a separate garage complex while our car continues right up to the grand entrance, a sweeping staircase of pale marble that leads to double doors large enough to admit a giant.
The car stops, and I can’t tear my eyes from the mansion. “Is this…” I whisper, afraid of the answer, afraid that he will say yes. “Is this the Grand Master’s home?”
A low, genuine laugh erupts from Antonio, a sound so unexpected it startles me. It’s not a pleasant sound; it’s a chuckle of pure, unadulterated derision.
“This?” he says, the laughter dying in his throat as he turns to me. “No, my na?ve Pet. This is merely a waystation. A guesthouse, if you will. Konstantine’s home makes this look like a peasant’s cottage.”
Konstantine. I mull over that name, repeat it.
He clearly doesn’t realise his error, but that there is a piece of knowledge worth more than a kingdom.
Most Chapter Lords aren’t even privy to that information, and yet I know it.
I know his real name. Does Antonio realise he’s fucked up?
I chew my lip, wondering if it was tactical or tiredness that made him slip.
He reaches over, his movement swift, and takes my hand.
His grip is not gentle; it’s firm, possessive, his skin cool against my suddenly feverish palm.
He doesn’t release my hand. Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and he leans closer.
The amusement is gone from his face, replaced by an intensity that freezes the blood in my veins.
His voice drops, becoming low and deadly serious, each word measured and precise.
“Listen to me, Pet,” he says, his dark eyes pinning me in place.
“While we are here, you are never alone. You are always being watched, you are always being monitored. Every word you speak, every expression that crosses your face. Every single action, no matter how small will be observed, recorded, and reported directly back to Konstantine.”
He lets the weight of that settle for a moment. I can feel the panic, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.
“The people here are not your friends. They are his eyes. If you do something, anything, that causes enough offence…” He pauses, and a shadow, genuine and dark, passes over his features.
“Even I would not be able to save you from the Grand Master’s wrath.
Do you understand me? This is where my protection has its limits. ”
I swallow, the sound loud in the quiet car. My throat is sandpaper. My whole body is trembling now, a fine, uncontrollable shiver that starts deep in my core. Wrath. The word echoes, conjuring images of ancient gods striking down mortals for their impudence. This is not a game. This is my life.
He doesn’t wait for a response. My understanding is clearly written on my pale, terrified face. He releases my hand and pushes his door open. The outside world rushes in, the sounds of birdsong and the faint rustle of leaves a cruel parody of normality.
He comes around to my side and opens my door. I don’t move. I am paralyzed, rooted to the leather seat by pure dread.
“Pet,” he says, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Somehow, my body obeys. I swing my legs out, my feet meeting the smooth, sun-warmed marble of the steps.
The ground feels unsteady. He places a hand on the small of my back, a gesture that might look protective or intimate to an observer, but I feel it for what it is; a steer, a guide, the touch of my jailer.
He leads me forward. Each step up the marble staircase is an effort. The mansion looms above, its countless windows like dark, judging eyes. I feel them on me, the unseen watchers Antonio warned me about.
I feel exposed, dissected.
My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
I keep my eyes fixed on the immense doors which are now swinging inward, revealing a cavernous, shadowy foyer.
As we cross the threshold, the temperature drops significantly. The air is cool and smells of polish and old money. The doors swing shut behind us with a heavy thud that resonates through the vast space like a tomb sealing.
And just like that, the outside world is gone. I am inside a new cage, and I know our Grand Master is already watching, waiting for me to fuck up.