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Anteros picked up the screwdriver and Arlo snapped his head to the side. His eyes adjusted to the dark and widened at the sight.
“No, please, Boss.”
Anteros turned on the screwdriver. “When a tree is about to fall, do you think it wastes time bargaining with the wind?”
“What—” Anteros drove the screwdriver into Arlo’s thigh and the question was cut short by the sound of his scream. When fifty minutes had passed, Anteros's watch sounded. He pushed his sleeve back, the face of his watch bloody like red rain droplets on a windshield. Setting the pliers on the table, he returned to Arlo.
His head lobbed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Blood pooled around his feet, reflecting the inky sheen of the dark room. His entire left arm was out of commission, obvious by the way it hung dead, the hushed tap tap tap of its blood draining into the bigger pool.
Anteros grabbed Arlo’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. Arlo whimpered at the feel of Anteros’s fingers digging into his toothless mouth. “You are almost finished.” Relief washe
d over Arlo’s features. Anteros pulled out his knife, and relief bled from Arlo’s body even quicker.
Death. He could see the word in Arlo’s eyes. Anteros kept his grip tight on Arlo’s chin as his other hand stashed the knife momentarily in his waistband. With the same hand, he undid Arlo’s waistband. Relief transformed into fear and dismay as Anteros grabbed Arlo’s cock. His eyes begged and pleaded as realization twisted inside him like the knife no longer promised to do.
Anteros reached back for the knife and with slow certainty, sliced his cock off. Arlo’s scream was sharp and agonizing until it wasn’t. He passed out, but he did not die. He would die as slowly or as quickly as the blood drained from his body.
With disgust, Anteros took the now dismembered cock and shoved it into Arlo’s mouth.
When Anteros arrived at Lucio’s home, councilmember Dario “The Cuck” De Luca was reading a newspaper in the foyer, sun streaming across the sepia-toned paper in slats. Upon seeing Anteros, he folded his paper and stood. Dario was dressed in the usual three-piece suit, scowl ever present beneath his goatee. His hair was peppered with gray, wrinkles of disdain lining his olive-toned skin. The Cuck was father to Emilio Alessio De Luca, but also Gabriella De Luca, the halfwit he’d sent to tend to Frankie.
The nurse came out and upon seeing the two men, immediately got flustered. Clearly Dario had been waiting to see Lucio, but custom permitted Anteros the first visit. She tugged her collar and looked to the floor. Smiling acidly, Dario sat back down.
“It’s not like I’m a busy man,” he muttered. Flipping the newspaper page, Dario eyed Anteros’s hands, where there was still a bit of Arlo’s blood he had yet to clean off. “Busy day, I see.”
“A nosebleed,” Anteros replied, following the nurse into Lucio’s room. Anteros would not mourn Arlo and he did not feel badly in the slightest for his actions, but he didn’t need The Cuck sticking his nose in business that didn’t concern him.
When Anteros entered the ornate red and gold room, Lucio was sitting up in bed, which meant it was a good day. Still, the man’s eyes were glassy and far off.
“Leave us,” Anteros said to the nurse and Lucio’s guard. Head bowed, the nurse backed away. The guard hemmed and hawed as usual, but still left. Anteros sat next to Lucio and took his hand. Immediately he began informing Lucio of the goings on, the way he did every week. Lucio barely blinked, bright blue eyes staring out a big window covered in sheer drapes. They blew with an eerie unseen breeze.
Letting go of Lucio’s hand, Anteros moved on to the real reason for the visit.
“Lucio,” Anteros lowered his voice. “Do you know anything about Francesca Notte?” He looked over to the doors, double-checking that the nurse was good and gone. Slowly, Lucio turned to look at Anteros and stared straight at him. His eyes were the famous Pavoni color: a crystal, cornflower color, like the sky liquefied.
Anteros thought to Frankie, to her beautiful blue eyes, and to the famous fairytale every Pavoni learned from birth.
“Yes?” Anteros prompted. “Do you know about Francesca Notte? Or,” Anteros lowered his voice further, “Francesca Pavoni?” Lucio blinked and turned back to the window. Anteros cursed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. He would see to Antonio Notte, that was certain, for making him feel and act like a fool. For a moment, Anteros had given in to the same insanity as the soldiers. Anteros lightly placed his hand on Lucio’s shoulder, then turned to leave.
As the butler was handing him his coat to leave, Dario walked up. With the paper folded underneath his arm, he said, “I heard you inquiring about the Pavoni family.”
“You were eavesdropping?” Anteros growled. Anteros afforded him the respect a council member demanded—his hands were tied in that regard—but eavesdropping? The man was practically asking to inexplicably die in his sleep.
“Do you want to know what I know? Or I should I just continue on my way…” Dario trailed off, acting as if there was more to tell. Anteros hastily gestured for him to continue. “There were…rumors.” Dario paused, waiting for Anteros’s reaction.
“Rumors?” Anteros raised his eyebrow incredulously.
“Urban legend, a tale of a princess, stuff that gets passed around to the soldiers. There is no merit to them.” The way he spoke, it was obvious he believed there was at least little truth to it.
Anteros scowled. This was what Dario had stopped him for? “The Pavoni Princess? Everyone and their mother knows that story.”
“There are rumors…” Dario trailed off, shrugging coyly.
“What rumors?” Anteros growled. Dario was obviously drawing this out.
“Lucio Senior and Valeria had a fifth daughter, Isabella,” Dario continued.
“I would know that,” Anteros replied quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Wouldn’t he? When Lucio Pavoni Senior had married Valeria Marchesi, they had borne only four children: Lucia, Lucio, Cesar, and Emilio. That was it. Anteros would know if the ones who started the Family had birthed a fifth child.
