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“Now. Where shall we begin? Here, perhaps?” Picking up a serrated fruit knife, Sergei pressed it against Edward’s left nipple. The old man shrieked into his gag.
“Or here?” He moved the knife over an index finger. With a flick, he sliced into the skin. Edward screamed, his pupils dilating wildly with terror and pain. The cut was small but deep. Blood was everywhere, soaking the sheets in a deep, plum-red pool.
“Or here?” Slowly, relishing each second, Sergei dragged the point of the knife onto Edward’s belly, tracing a line downward till the blade brushed the top of his penis. “Would you like that, Eddie? Would you like me to cut?”
Sir Edward Manning strained wildly, pulling so hard that the ropes at his wrists and ankles drew blood.
Death was coming. He knew that now. It wasn’t death that scared him as much as the torture that would precede it. He wasn’t very good with pain. Never had been.
How could I have been so stupid? Risked so much, and for what? For sex?
In his terror, he thought about his mother. He thought about Andrew, his college boyfriend and the only man he’d ever really loved.
“Close your eyes, Eddie,” Sergei whispered in his ear. Through his tears, Sir Edward Manning did as he was told. He felt the cold blade against his genitals and wondered when, or even if, he would pass out.
“Let’s get some sound effects, shall we?” Leaving the knife resting on Sir Edward’s groin, Sergei untied his gag. “I want to hear you beg for your life.”
“Please!” Sir Edward hated the sound of his own voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this! I’m a rich man. I . . . I can pay you.”
“Pay me? Pay me what?”
“Whatever you want! Anything. Name your price.”
“Name my price? You still think I’m your whore, don’t you?” Grabbing a second, larger knife from the pillow, Sergei slashed like Zorro across Sir Edward’s chest. The old man let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“No, please. Please! Tell me what you want. I’m sorry! Just tell me what you want, for God’s sake!”
“All right,” said Sergei. “I’ll tell you what I want.” To Sir Edward Manning’s astonishment, the Romanian got up off the bed and began getting dressed. Scooping up the knives, he rattled them close to Sir Edward’s face, laughing loudly as the old man cowered, then leisurely carried them back into the kitchen.
For the first time since he was a child, Sir Edward Manning prayed.
Please, please let it be over. Please don’t let this be a trick, a way to prolong the agony.
He tried to fight back hope but it was impossible. He wanted so very, very desperately to live.
Sergei came back into the bedroom and smiled. Sir Edward Manning smiled back.
Then he realized that the boy had something behind his back.
“No, please! Don’t hurt me. PLEASE!” Sir Edward Manning felt black despair overwhelm him.
Sergei came closer. “Too late!” He laughed. “Bang bang!”
By the time Sir Edward realized it was an iPhone in Sergei’s hand not a gun, he’d already lost control of his bladder.
“First,” said Sergei, “I’m going to take some pretty pictures of you, Eddie. So I need you to smile for the camera. Can you do that?”
Sir Edward nodded furiously.
“I’m going to send these pictures to some friends of mine. If anything happens to me—or if you don’t do exactly as I ask—they’re going to wind up online for the whole world to enjoy. Do you understand?”
Another nod.
“And after that, my friends will kill you. They will slice off your dick and roast it with rosemary and they will eat it.” Sergei Milescu’s upper lip curled. “Do you believe me, Sir Edward?”
“I believe you.” Sir Edward Manning felt nauseous with relief. “I’ll do anything you say, Sergei. Anything.”
“That’s good. My friends will be happy to hear it. They’ll be even happier when you get them the information they need.”
