I study her for a minute, my gut sending up a small flare. I’m surprised Cristiano never mentioned the trip.It’s not like him. Although we’ve had so much on our plates, and every free moment I’ve been able to steal, I’ve been with Daniela.
“When are you leaving?”
“Saturday. I did mention it to Daniela in passing yesterday, but I thought Cristiano had already cleared it with you. We’ll be gone for three weeks. I hope this is fine with you. Up until the last few days, you’ve been spending a lot of time in the valley. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Alma, you’re entitled to a vacation. You don’t take enough time off. We’ve been very busy, and it must have slipped Cristiano’s mind.”But I will ask him about it as soon as that asshole in my dungeon is dead.
“Do you want breakfast?” she asks, reaching for an onion.
“No. Just coffee. I’ll get it. You keep chopping so we don’t starve.”
“While I’m in charge of the kitchen, no one is starving. The trip is a dream come true, although I hate to miss the rebelo boat race,” she says wistfully.
I’d almost forgotten about the regatta. Huntsman Port participates every year, on June twenty-fourth, the Feast of St. John. Although this year it’s late because of some burgeoning pandemic concerns that never amounted to anything.
“I haven’t missed one yet.”
“Don’t worry. You already know how it ends.”
She wags a finger at me. “Be humble, Antonio. One day you might get a big surprise.”
I’ve known this woman all my life. She and my mother are very close, still. Alma sat with her the day my father almost killed her—the day he died. I put an arm around her shoulders. “You know how much I hate surprises.”
“I do. Now go find your pretty wife, and let an old woman finish her work.”
“Don’t go overboard with those onions,” I tell her on my way out of the kitchen. Not that she’s likely to listen to anything I have to say about cooking.
I pass Alvarez standing watch, on my way to the bedroom.
When I get there, I stop outside the door. I shouldn’t go in, not even for a few seconds to check on her. If she wakes, she’s going to ask questions that I can’t answer, and I don’t want to lie to her.
Before I leave, I press my hand to the bedroom door.It’s almost over. I’ll have my vengeance, and you’ll never have to worry about him abducting your daughter.
63
ANTONIO
When I get back, they’ve taken Tomas’s clothes and chained him to a hook attached to the ceiling. The same way an animal is hung after slaughter. It’s fitting.
My prisoner is on tiptoe, and I lower the chain so that he can stand on his feet. They were rough with him, but they didn’t beat him—that pleasure is mine.
Tomas is docile now.
There are stages a man goes through as he approaches death by torture. Not every man spends time in every stage, but he experiences all of them, even for a fleeting moment. It’s the interrogator’s responsibility to know what implement to use, at any given time, for the best result.
I take a bullwhip from where it’s hanging on the wall.
“Who are you working with?”
“Fuck you.” There’s no steam behind it, as it lands with a plop at my feet.
The whip hisses before it makes contact with his back. There’s a small delay, a nanosecond, before the first scream bounces off the walls. That’s how it always is. He’ll feel my wrath the same way any other prisoner would, but he’s notanyprisoner, and his scream gives me a rush I don’t normally get.
“I hate to repeat myself. But I will, as many times as need be. Who are you working with?”
Tomas takes only six lashes before he spits out, “Sergei Chernov.”
The Russian oligarch. I picture him as anXon Fedorov’s drawing.