I exhale a quiet laugh. ‘Because this isn’t my first rodeo with the Thompsons. The Thompson rivalry runs deeper than just the last two weeks, boss. It’s family tradition.’ Mr Lewis leans back, considering my comment. He wasn’t around when the feud began – decades back – but he’s heard the stories. That’s how I know exactly where Charlie plays his hand. When my father grew too old to keep fighting, he passed the reins to me. And Charlie? He slid into the role, right where his uncle left off.
‘This year, Mr Lewis, we finish what our fathers started.’ He gives a knowing nod. We spend hours preparing, scattering false trails. The terrain works in our favour – thick forests, deceptive paths. Everything nudges them towards the clearing, towards the Trinity, where the final play unfolds.
CHAPTER 14
THE CURATOR
The walls in this godforsaken place are paper-thin. I hear the familiar voice of Sal’s boss drifting through the thin walls – it’s calm, measured, and eerily devoid of the fury I’d expect if Sal were dead. It’s calm. Too calm. I sit frozen, straining to listen to more than clipped syllables and muted murmurs slipping through the wall. No rage. No venom. Just the steady rhythm of negotiation.
That has to mean Sal isn’t dead.
The call drags on for an hour. Neither of the two muscle-bound shadows so much as glance my way, their silence deliberate. Charlie talks, every so often letting out a quiet huff of amusement, the kind that prickles my skin and makes me wonder what part of the conversation is so damn funny. Then, finally, the conversation ends. A bottle of water glides across the floor towards me, followed by a neatly wrapped sandwich, like a reward for something I’ve done worthy. It’s as if obedience earns rations. Charlie enters the room, the air shifting as he crosses the threshold. He smirks, shaking his head. ‘Looks like you were right, little bitch.’ He kneels down, before continuing, ‘Killing you would have been expensive.’
I keep my face blank; keep my hands steady as I reach for the water. If I’m worth something, if Sal is still in play, then the game isn’t over. Charlie leans back, seating himself in a chair. Amusement dancing behind his eyes. Charlie’s rage over his grandson Ritchie’s murder is palpable, but instead of mourning with grace, he weaponises his grief. His retaliation was swift and merciless, showing that vengeance is his coping mechanism. Charlie’s cunning, playing the long game, but from my lens, his strategic mind lacks empathy. He sees his crew as mere pawns, even those closest to him. It seems loyalty is transactional and me? I’m expendable. His power is rooted in fear, not respect, and he sees strength as domination, but his legacy is just soaked in blood.
‘Have you ever seen a rich man hunt?’ he asks. His smirk is a silent dare, and his eyes test for the flicker of fear. I give him nothing.
He continues, almost bitter. ‘I don’t mean for survival. I mean for sport, because rich men can afford to turn violence into entertainment.’ Charlie lifts the glass to his mouth, the inky dark Guinness coating his lips like blood, and swallowed without a blink.
His movements are unhurried, and he drinks like he has all the time in the world to savour silence. ‘Money buys comfort. Power buys obedience. But it’s never enough. There’s something in people like me,’ he continues, ‘something dark, something ancient that needs the thrill of watching something run before it dies. And where we’re going, cupcake, they don’t chase deer.’
There’s a slow pause. Charlie thinks he’s clever, thinks his little speech about rich men and their so-called sick games has me rattled. In reality, he’s a dumb cocksucker. He leans back, glugging the last of his Guinness, so I give it to him. I reel him in. I let my breath hitch, my fingers tighten around the water bottle like I can’t steady myself. My eyes flick to the door, like I might bolt. It’s a performance. It’s what I’m good at, and he buys every second of it.
Charlie chuckles, it’s slow and lazy. ‘There it is,’ he mutters. ‘Thought you’d take longer with all that bravado. But even the tough ones crack, eventually.’
I swallow hard, lowering my gaze. He thinks he’s got me. He thinks I’m scared.
Good.
CHAPTER 15
THE DIPLOMAT
Themasiadoesn’t change, but Carlos used to sit in that chair – the oversized, throne-like relic at the head of the table, its carved arms worn smooth by years of command. He’d sprawl there, elbows wide, boots caked in pig filth, like the king of rot. He’d toss scraps to his boars, watching them snort and claw at the ground, revelling in their hunger the way he revelled in this place like it washiskingdom. He saw themasiaand thecotolike his throne.Histerritory. A place where men came to talk with their hats in their hands and left knowing they’d be eating dinner with their families after a successful hunt or staring at the ceiling of a casket.
But Carlos is gone now. Has been for a while.
Now, Mr Lewis sits in that chair – same posture, different weight. The boars have long gone. There’s no smug revelry, just business as usual. Themasiastill stands, but it doesn’t breathe the way it used to. It’s changed. It used to stink of rot and murder – thick in the walls, clinging to the old wooden beams like old breath. Now it’s different. Cleaner, maybe, not so much the aftermath of something butchered. But no less cruel. With Mr Lewis at the helm, the malice hasn’t left, it’s just learnt to whisper, and smile at you before it strikes.
‘You know, Sal, most men would think power is here, upstairs where the wine flows and the masks smile.’
‘Yes, boss. Isn’t that where money exchanges hands?’
‘That’s just noise. This –’ he gestures to a heavy door, ‘is where the music is written.’
Unlocking the large oak door, it creaks open. Inside, there’s a cold space lit by the glow of dozens of monitors: The hunting reserve sprawled across the screens, thermal views, and sniper feeds.
I nod. ‘The central tower ishere.’
‘A little less tower, more of a control room. Every breath out there is felt in here.’
I step inside, my gaze narrowing at the setup. On the desk, a microphone rests between two buttons – one red, one green.
‘Sniper feeds. Viewpoints from every ridge. Even the damn tree line,’ I breathe, the shock catching in my throat. He barely glances at me.
‘Naturally,’ he says, casually. ‘I added a few more angles.’ Then, with a calculated ease, he holds out a masquerade mask. ‘Put this on,’ he murmurs. ‘There’s one last thing I want to show you before the guests arrive.’
Guests?
