Except the butler doesn’t get to finish his sentence before another voice stops them all cold.
“Well, hello there.”
Connall stops, and someone not traumatized enough to spot it might have missed the anticipatory tensing of his broad shoulders. The big man is ready for violence of some kind, and he steels his expression before turning around.
“Mr. Withers.” The butler bows but offers no explanation for his actions or their presence in the kitchen.
The house’s A/C unit clicks on, flooding the kitchen with the smell of rotten meat.
Dressed in short silk pajamas covered in Versace’s emblem and velvet slippers, Withers settles against the countertop, head supported by his hand. The style reveals bare legs and arms covered in open sores and yellowish pus—so much so that the fabric clings in places.
It’s as ridiculous as it is gross, like seeing a grim reaper dressed for lounging in a luxury brand—and Donatella will not be calling on him as a new ambassador.
“Where are you taking our guests? I was just on my way to fetch them, and yet here they are. With you,” Withers says in a sing-song tone.
Connall’s eye twitches, and his nostrils flare, but he maintains a straight face before stating, “They must be hungry. I am sure Mr. Carnell prefers them alive.”
It’s a very subtle criticism of Withers’s treatment of them.
Withers is—sadly, and to Luca’s current detriment—not fooled.
But the two men are playing a strange game of chicken that Luca is also sure he wants no part of.
For a butler, Connall has a big aura.
“I gotta pee,” Luca blurts out when it looks like Withers is going to break and do something they’re all going to regret.
Connall’s mouth twitches, but he points to a small alcove off the large kitchen. “In there. I’ll get you some food.”
Luca grabs Nix’s hand, and in seconds, they’re locked in the small powder room. Luca drops onto the toilet to pee—because he was not lying about that—while Nix drinks from the tap in great gulps.
They switch places once he’s finished so Luca can wash his hands, dragging them along his neck to remove even more of the oil and wine.
“Shit,” Nix whispers, as he runs the tap to wash—and to create ambient noise. “We were so close.”
“Again,” Luca sighs.
After Nix turns the tap off, he dries his hands on the pristine white towel. He then crouches down to search through the cabinet under the sink.
“What are you looking for?” Luca asks, but there’s nothing under there except a First-Aid kit and extra toilet paper.
Opening the First-Aid kit, Nix rummages around until he finds an anti-nausea med. He pops a single dose out from the bubble sheet and hands it to Luca.
Next are two painkillers.
“That should help a tiny bit. We don’t want you to get too sleepy,” he suggests, tucking a lock of Luca’s hair behind his ear.
“You’re my favorite.” Luca kisses him and throws the meds back with a bit more water. “Thanks.”
They’re interrupted by a loud knock, and Nix shuts the cabinet door as quietly as possible.
“We’re almost done. Geesh. Rude much?” Luca yells.
Withers is on the other side of the door when they cautiously open it, leaning back against the narrow strip of wall with his arms crossed like he has nothing better to do and nowhere else to be.
“Come along. Carnell wants you on the patio.”
At midnight?
