Chapter 9
LEGION
PRESENT DAY
NEARLY THREE YEARS AFTER
HER WEDDING NIGHT
T he first few smooth, persistent notes of the Baroque Concerto fill the room and drift through the halls of the mansion.
I wait, head resting back against the supple leather of the long Chesterfield couch.
Smoke from the cigarette between my lips snakes up toward the elaborate crown molding, which consists of elegant filigree patterns accented with gold leaf.
The sheer size and elegance of Pierce Manor churn my stomach.
I’m sitting across from the unconscious owner.
The very wealthy, very evil Johnathan Pierce.
His office alone is larger than any homestead I’ve set foot in.
The furnishings and décor were no doubt expertly designed by the top interior decorators in the region, perhaps even the country.
The monster before me begins to stir. Leaning forward, I pull the last drag from my cigarette before blowing the smoke in his direction. The man’s nostrils twitch at the offending odor. I extinguish the coffin nail in the silver tray atop the leather ottoman between us.
He lets out a light cough, his shoulders subconsciously moving in a futile attempt to bring his arms in front of him. I’ve bound them tightly behind his back. The fabric of his tailored suit strains against the flexing muscles in his broad shoulders. He will awaken shortly, and then we’ll begin.
I glance down at the sterling silver-plated picture frame resting beside me. It had previously been displayed on his ornately carved desk across the room. A standard token of his legal obligation. I lift it to study the blonde woman within the frame.
Is she aware of the means by which her husband makes a living?
The lives he sells to the highest bidder without a care for what becomes of them?
Is she privy to the fact that the diamonds she frosts her slender body with are blood diamonds?
The money she spends without limitation or restraint, blood money?
“ Wha…what’s…going on?” he mumbles. I glance over the picture to meet his bewildered expression.
“Mr. Pierce.” I smile, and his blue eyes blink in confusion. “You have an impressive home. Might I be so bold as to query how a man of merely thirty-four acquired such a gargantuan estate?” Though I already know.
“Who…who are you?”
Ignoring his question, I turn the frame around and place it, photo up, on the ottoman before him.
“Where’s my wife?” he asks, a bit more alert now… Now that someone he cares about may be in potential danger.
“It’s Thursday night, Mr. Pierce… Your precious Nikita is out galivanting with her friends, per her usual routine.
Have you forgotten? Perhaps I slammed your head a little too hard when I rendered you unconscious earlier?
My apologies.” A smile curves my mouth once more as rage eclipses his confused expression.
“Allow me to assure you, the contusion on the back of your skull will soon be the very least of your worries tonight.”
“Security!”
“I’m afraid they’re no longer with us.”
His stubbled jaw clenches, and he continues to fight his restraints, shoulders thrashing back and forth. “Do you have any idea who I am? What I can do to you?”
His impotent threat only widens my grin. “Indeed, I do!”
“Then you’re a fool!”
“ A fool in love … Yes, I am! And since we’re on the topic of love, does your wife know what you really do?
” I tap the glass on the picture frame, drawing his gaze back to her.
“Or does she believe your numerous nightclubs across the country provide her this offensively extravagant lifestyle in the lap of luxury? I know they double as underground auction houses... Does she?”
He lifts his gaze and stares at me, as if there’s some chance he may be able to convince me I’ve got my facts wrong.
“ Human trafficking,” I clarify. “A very profitable, fast-growing criminal industry second only to the drug trade…and even that is debatable. You’ve carved yourself out a nice little notch, haven’t you?”
He’s got nothing to say now. An arrogant mask of calm slips over his features. This one will be fun to break.
I slowly rise from the oversized Chesterfield, stepping around the matching ottoman to stand closer to him.
“You can smell it on me…can’t you? That metallic, gag-inducing, pungent odor that seems to linger on one’s person…
Violence… Death… Reminiscent of wet pennies, is it not?
I daresay that shit seeps into one’s soul…
permeates the aura… You may disagree, however.
Facilitators, such as yourself, are not without bloody hands.
Yours are as bloody as mine. Though my hands are not tainted with the blood of pure innocents…
That makes you the bad guy between us, Mr. Pierce. ”
“What do you want?”
For this nearly three-year-long, exhausting quest, to be over… To return to my love.
Releasing another weary sigh, I take a seat on the ottoman directly in front of him, almost knee to knee.
“To be done with this, if I’m being honest, and honesty is what I’m seeking from you , Mr. Pierce.
In my experience, before pain is administered in certain situations, such as the one in which we find ourselves now , men lie.
I don’t have time for that…so, we’re just going to skip the formalities, and I’m going to hurt you, Mr. Pierce.
.. Do you hear me? I’m going to hurt you so badly…
you’re going to want to tell me the truth. ”
His blue eyes widen in surprise, as if it’s the first time the man has been threatened. “I don’t believe you…” The astonishment in his tone further grates my nerves.
“Frankly, whether you believe me in this moment is of little importance to me. What should be of the highest priority to you , however, is that I believe you .”
After removing the stiletto-style switchblade from my pocket and holding it in my leather-gloved hand, the blade springs forth, inches from his face. “The next time I remove this blade, it will be for one of two reasons… To cut you free…or to set you free.”
He only stares at me, attempting to decipher my meaning.
Hope lingers behind his ocean blue eyes.
I laugh inwardly. The joke went right over his head.
A part of him believes he will live through this interrogation.
That perhaps I am merely bluffing. Pain will set him straight, make him a believer, but his hope will provide the answers I seek.
Flipping the blade in my hand, I grip it like an icepick and raise my arm. The blade plunges deep into his thigh, a few inches from his kneecap. The knife grates against his femur bone as it sinks all the way down to the ivory handle.
He wails in pain, staring bug-eyed in incredulous disbelief at the handle protruding from his leg. Blood darkens the grey fabric of his slacks, seeping from the wound.
While giving him a moment to work it all out, I light up another cigarette and lean back to watch him come to terms with his predicament. It takes a few moments, so I finger the lid of my Zippo, listening to the hinge creak just before it claps shut.
Did she ever find the one I left behind for her? True Love…
“ Jesus Christ,” he whimpers, finally raising his eyes to look at me.
“ He can’t help you, Mr. Pierce.” I sigh, tucking the lighter into the inner pocket of my leather jacket. “ But the truth shall set you free.”
“Alright… What do you want to know?”
I narrow my gaze at him, unconvinced that he is already beyond the point of lying to me. There is a fine line when it comes to pain and the extraction of information. Too far, and one will say anything in desperation to make it stop, truth or no. But not enough…
“ Le Quattro Stagioni …” He looks at me with confusion.
“ The music ,” I dryly clarify, “Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
I had considered Mozart’s Requiem Lacrimosa…
but no. No . Vivaldi… suits , don’t you think?
” He only continues to stare with an annoyingly dimwitted expression mingling with his pain.
“You don’t even truly appreciate the genius of this music, do you?
The profound elegance of it? The brilliant sonorities?
Ingenious innovations that truly capture the essence of nature?
Do you even know what is playing throughout your expansive, excessive home? ”
“Classical music.”
The ignorance of his reply further annoys me.
“This is L’inverno … Vivaldi’s Winter.” He should know this before he dies, how this piece specifically foreshadows his impending doom.
“Did you know classical music causes the brain to release dopamine, thereby suppressing the stress hormone, cortisone?” I grin at him, cocking my head to the side. “ Is it working?”
“Considering I have a knife in my leg…that I’m being held against my will in my own home by a deranged psychopath… No. It isn’t.”
“There’s something about classical music that inspires me to get creative with a knife.
” I smile as his eyes widen, watching my hand move slowly toward the switchblade protruding from his thigh.
“The opening movement of Winter resembles a shivering man… Are you shaking yet , Mr. Pierce?” I flick the handle, causing him to jerk at the pain.
“No matter… you will be . The relentless chill of winter finds its way inside in this piece. How fitting, no?” He only stares.
“I find your lack of contribution to this conversation rather unmannerly , Mr. Pierce.”
After pulling an agitated drag from my cigarette, I blow the smoke at him again.