Blood

Portia

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” Vincent is the first to speak up, taking a step toward the man like the stupid loser he is.

The boss's lips curls upward as though in amusement, and I watch him with bated breath as it takes the most minute tilt of his head to have a soldier charging at my brother, shoving him back to the floor.

The man's eyes flit to me now as though he's curious, and my heart beat faster at how deeply those blue eyes twisted the knots in my belly. It feels like forever, the both of us, holding each other's gazes, neither wanting to look away first until he gives up, scanning Gregory and Nathan, who is still passed out. What the hell did they do to him?

“And him? The boy.” he says suddenly. I don't blink. They're the first words I hear from him, and his voice, fuck, his voice is deep — almost like a rough growl but a low one. I start wondering how a growl can sound so quiet. It's without a doubt firm, and assets the control he possesses. I get the feeling that he's a man of few words. Straight to the point.

Strict.

Now why is that so fucking hot?

A soldier moves toward Nathan now, boots clanking against the cemented floor, the sound bouncing off the solid walls. I wonder how vast the darkness in our little cell is. In the distance, I see glimpses of flashing lights. Windows just like the ones in our cell, I presume.

“He's fine. Still breathing,” Gregory says thickly, a slight edge to his voice. The soldier ignores his words and bends to check for himself. He straightens and nods to the boss.

“He still lives.”

The boss looks different without his camo. Bigger. Deadlier. Slinkier. His hair is a little wet. I'm sure he took his precious time in the shower, which seems very uncharacteristic of his personality.

He nods to the soldier, shifts his gaze to me once more, before turning to my uncle.

“Let's get this over with.”

Heathcliff, my uncle, smirks as he reaches behind him to where he must have hid his pistol all along.

“What's happening? What are you going to do?” I cry out, a new fear overwhelming me even though it's not the first time I'm seeing a gun. I live in a world of violence. I live and breathe it ever since I was born. It's my name. My inheritance. My legacy. My life. I'm the Esmeralda princess at the heart of it. Or I was when my father was still alive. Ever since his death, I've been reduced to a pawn. A means through which my selfish brothers achieve their nefarious aims.

Suddenly, boldly, I pull my legs back, readying to stand. To stand tall too. My feet is bare, I realize. I must have lost my shoes in transit. I don't care.

Everyone pauses, their eyes on me.

I only see one person. Him. The boss.

He appears taller than before but that's because I'm still on the ground. He takes a step toward me, and I scramble backward in fright, my hand falling on the rusting metal frame of a cot. I pull myself together to stand. Willing the nausea to subside. Willing my fear to die.

I realize I still have my mother's veil in one hand. Dry crusts of blood sticks to it just like my wedding dress. It's Amma's blood, no doubt. The memory of how his men killed her would be forever ingrained in my mind. It would haunt me for days to come, reminding me that the boss is not one to be messed with.

And that's if I make it out of here alive today.

That's if he shows me mercy.

He stops when he's only a few feet away from me. He's taller now than he appeared in the basement. I'm short. I've lost the five inches my shoes gave to me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him and my gaze alternates between his deep blue, soullesss eyes to the scar running from his cheek to his mouth, his neck. There's another scar there. Concealed. The edge of one. It disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.

The man has been through hell.

No. He is hell.

He's going to be my hell.

“Don't be stupid, Portia. Kneel,” my uncle orders from behind him. “Do you know who the fuck he is? Show some respect, you little brat.”

I ignore him, shifting my gaze from that almost concealed scar on the boss's neck back up to his eyes. Someone chuckles at my uncle's words. The other suited man, I presume.

The boss's eyes skim my face, then slowly move down. I follow it, see how the blood has splattered over the ripped bodice of my dress, too. I don't know why I'm surprised by it.

I reach to put my hand over it and cover myself, feeling self-conscious.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks in that same quiet, yet chilling tone he used in telling his soldier to check up on Nathan.

My gaze snaps back up to his, and I squint, confused. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen him before in my life. I don't know him at all. I study him critically, shift my gaze to the other suited one, his right-hand man or brother perhaps who stood with his hands in his pockets, but still couldn't place their faces. I shake my head, gulping.

He leaned in till his breath fan the tip of my left ear, and whisper. “Scarfoni.”

I gasp, stunned.

It's a lie. It can't be. The last time I heard the Scarfoni name was ages ago. They're all dead. The whole family massacred. None was spared.

I swallow, feeling the blood drain out of my face because I know what we did to him. I know what we did to them.

He's back for revenge. I know this.

He smiles at me like he's reading my thoughts. Knows what I'm thinking.

“Scared now, are we? Say my name,” he commands.

Scarfoni. That's their family name. When they'd all been alive, that name was associated with terror. My brothers attacked them after betraying our father.

“Say it.”

I swallow, lick my lips.

He waits patiently, taking his sweet time. If he's survived the war and is this calm, then he's had a lot of time to learn patience. It's been ten years since then.

Scarfoni. I do the math in my head. He must be in his late twenties, surely. I glance to the other one, noting their resemblance for the first time. The other suited one is younger, though, with a homely, yet deadly appearance.

“Scarfoni,” I say at last, the name stinging my tongue. “Callahan Scarfoni.”

I don't know how he manages to hear me as my voice is barely a whisper, but he gives me the faintest smile and a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement.

“Portia Von Esmeralda.” His gaze sweeps over my neck, over the swell of my breasts above the ruined gown. I see the lust flash in his eyes for just one second, then it's gone. “Grown up and pretty. Shame you have to die.”

My mouth instantly goes dry. I'm speechless as he closes his hand gently over my shoulder, his grip slightly less painful than he was earlier when he forces me to my knees.

He leans down, brushes his lips against my ear.

I'm caught off-guard by the tickle of the scruff on his jaw.

“Do as I tell you. Don't. Fucking. Look,” he warns, and I know what's coming. What's about to happen.

I know I'll disobey him. I know I'll look.

He strides away from me and takes his place a few meters away, close to his brother. I sink to the ground again, feeling numb. He positions himself before my brothers as Heathcliff orders that Gregory should be made to kneel beside Vincent.

I can see sense their fear from here. See how when Callahan crouches down in front of Vincent, a dark patch blooms on the insides of Vincent's trousers. My brother pisses himself. My all powerful, ruthless, no-nonsense brother pisses himself.

I suppress the urge to laugh. No, to really roll myself on the floor, cackle till my guts hurt, but now's not the time.

We're about to die.

Callahan doesn't miss the expanding dark spot. If he's enjoying this, he doesn't show it. His face is as straight as a ruler.

In my periphery, I see Nathan just beginning to stir awake. Will they kill him too? He's just a kid. He's innocent.

“Where is Fernando?” Callahan asks.

“How the fuck should I know that? The idiot is the reason why we're all here. He betrayed us. He's the one who plotted — ”

“I didn't ask for the details. Where is he? Do you know where he's run off to?”

“Fuck no. What am I? His bodyguard? I did — ”

“Then you are of no use to me,” Callahan says and straightens, a ting of finality in his gestures. He steps back and whistles. Just a whistle. Heathcliff points the gun in between Vincent's eyes and pulls the trigger. It's so fast, no hesitation, no tiem for Vincent to plead for this life. No time for me to even process, though I knew what was coming.

The sound is ear-splitting, reverberating off the walls. I press the heel of my palms to my ears, groaning. Why don't they use a silencer for crying out loud? Blood and pieces of my brother's brain splatter across the wall, and my face.

I wince, and wipe away it away. I don't scream. And I don't look away. I watch instead. Watch as Vincent's body twitches, still kneeling as if he's not realizing he's dead, before finally dropping to the floor with a thud.