Chapter 77 Antonio
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of a silence so profound it has become a physical presence in the house, a deafening roar in my ears.
Fourteen nights of a cold, vacant space in my bed that feels like a freshly dug grave.
I have become a ghost haunting my own life, pacing the marble floors of the study, my reflection in the dark windows a gaunt caricature of the man I was supposed to be.
Antonio, the untouchable. The fortress. A lie, spun from arrogance and fear, now crumbling to dust.
Each time the phone rings, my heart attempts to claw its way out of my throat. Each time a car door slams in the courtyard, a jolt of insane, stupid hope shoots through me, followed immediately by the crushing weight of reality.
They have her.
The Esau.
And they have not made a sound…until now.
The box sits on my desk.
It’s a plain, unmarked cardboard cube, delivered by a terrified-looking courier who couldn’t meet my eyes, who stammered that a man in a ski mask had paid him a thousand pounds to bring it directly to my hand. He’d already fled, the cash burning a hole in his pocket, a small price for his life.
I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, my hands flat on the cool wood of the desk. My world has shrunk to this box. This simple, terrible shape holds the answer to the question that has been eating me alive. Is she alive? The silence from it is worse than any sound.
Finally, I slide a letter opener under the tape.
The rip of the cardboard is obscenely loud in the tomb-like quiet of the study.
I fold back the flaps. Inside, nestled on a bed of white packing peanuts is a smaller, polished wooden box.
Cherrywood, I think. It looks like something meant for expensive jewellery, the kind I bought her.
My hand is steady as I lift it out. It’s heavier than I expected. I set it down and lift the lid.
And the world stops.
It’s not jewellery.
Nestled on a cushion of black velvet are two perfect, delicate shells.
Pale as alabaster, curved like tiny, exotic sea creatures.
For a second, my brain refuses to process the image.
They are too beautiful to be what they are.
Then, my eyes trace the familiar, soft lobe of one, the tiny, almost invisible freckle just below the helix.
I’ve kissed that freckle. I’ve whispered secrets into that ear, my lips brushing against that very skin.
Grace’s ears.
The air leaves my lungs in a single, stifled gasp.
A high-pitched whine fills my head, the sound of my own sanity straining at its tether.
I stumble back from the desk, my chair screeching against the floor.
I can’t breathe. My vision tunnels, the room tilting on its axis.
I have pieces of her. Discarded, mutilated trophies.
All my pretence, that cold, stoic facade I wore like armour, shatters into a million jagged pieces. The carefully constructed lie that she was just another woman, a pawn, a convenience, evaporates in the face of this horrific reality.
I love her. I have always loved her.
And my love for her is the weapon they are using to destroy us both.
My refusal to admit it, even to myself, my stupid, proud need to appear invulnerable has led to this. They didn’t just take her; they unmasked me, and in doing so handed me my own heart, carved out and bleeding.
A sound rips from my throat, a raw, animal noise of grief and rage that I don’t recognise as my own. I grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles are white, my entire body trembling. I want to burn the world down. I want to tear the Esau apart with my bare teeth.
My gaze fixes on the box again. There’s a note, tucked beside the cushion. My hand shakes as I reach for it, the paper feeling unclean, contaminated.
Antonio,
A token of our esteem. A reminder that time, like flesh, is finite. Come to us. Alone. You know the place. The Quarry. If you delay, we will continue to pare her down to her essentials, and we have so many pretty boxes that she’ll fit into.
It’s a trap. Even a child can see it. They have no intention of a trade.
They will kill me the moment I show my face, and then they will kill Grace, but the note is right.
Time is finite, and the image of another box containing another piece of her, a finger, an eye, is already searing itself into my brain.
I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s a trap.
I have to go. The thought of her, alone and in pain, waiting for me is a more certain death than any bullet.
I am already moving, my grief hardening into a cold, sharp fury. I yank open the top drawer of my desk and pull out the pistol concealed there. The weight of it is a comfort, a promise even.
The study door opens.
“Antonio? What’s all the shouting about? I heard a crash.”
Mateus. Dressed in a silk dressing gown, his hair impeccably styled even at this hour. He looks concerned, his brow furrowed in that practiced, brotherly way. My brother. The man I shared a childhood with. The man I fucking trusted.
And in that single, crystalline moment, everything snaps into place. The final piece of the nightmare clicks home.
The rage that explodes in me is pure and absolute. It whites out the grief, the fear, everything. It is a cleansing fire.
“Mateus,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes flicking from my face to the gun in my hand, to the open box on the desk. He takes a step closer, peers at it. His face pales. “Jesus, is that…?”
“They sent a message,” I say, not taking my eyes off him.
“That is monstrous,” he whispers, putting a hand to his chest. “Antonio, you mustn’t do anything rash. This is clearly a trap. You need to think. We need to plan.”
“Plan?” I let out a short bark of a laugh that has no humour in it. “There is no ‘we’, Mateus. Not anymore.”
“What are you talking about? I’m your brother.”
“My brother,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash. “My brother, who was so concerned for my safety. Who was so worried about my attachments.” I take a step toward him. “You gave her the cyanide, Mateus, didn’t you?”
His act falters for a fraction of a second. A flicker in his eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth. It’s all the confirmation I need.
“What? Antonio, you’re not thinking clearly. The stress…”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I bellow, before sending half the contents of the desk crashing to the floor.
His mask of brotherly concern melts away, replaced by a cold, calculating defiance. He knows the game is up. He straightens his back, his lip curling. “You were becoming weak, Antonio. A liability. That whore was making you soft. You were putting us all at risk for a pretty cunt.”
Every word is a nail in his coffin. “So you sold her? To them? To get to me?”
“I did what was necessary for the family. Our family.” he spits. “Something you’ve forgotten how to do. You were so busy playing the lovesick puppy, you couldn’t see the threat right under your nose. I was saving you from yourself.”
The sheer, staggering arrogance of it, the betrayal so profound, leaves me momentarily speechless.
“You gutless piece of shit,” I breathe. The gun feels like an extension of my arm. “You are lucky, Mateus. You are so unbelievably lucky.”
A smug, foolish light enters his eyes. He mistakes my controlled tone for hesitation. He thinks his blood still means something. “Luck? Antonio, be reasonable. We can still salvage this. Together. We can use this.”
“You’re lucky,” I repeat, cutting him off, “that I don’t have the time to make you suffer.
You’re lucky that every second I spend with you is a second she is in their hands, terrified and in pain.
You deserve to die slowly, Mateus. You deserve to beg.
You deserve to have pieces of you sent back in a box. ”
The smugness vanishes, replaced by stark, piss-your-pants fear.
He sees it in my eyes. The decision is made.
“Antonio, wait. It wasn’t like that. I can explain.
Everything I did, I did out of loyalty. Even this now proves it, it proves how obsessed you are.
You’re not thinking rationally, you’re not… ”
He takes a step back, hands raised. It’s the final, cowardly gesture that seals his fate.
I don’t wait, I don’t let him utter another lying word. I raise the pistol and pull the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. A single, precise round, right between his widening eyes. The back of his skull explodes in a grisly flower against the doorframe. He slumps to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut, his silk robe pooling around him in a parody of elegance.
There is no remorse, no brotherly grief. There is only a cold, hollow satisfaction at the debt collected.
I step over Mateus’s body without a second glance. The rage is gone, replaced by an icy, singular purpose. Grace. Get Grace back.