Chapter 8: The Hour of the Raven
750 Words
Lorenzo
Time stretches, elastic and cruel. The only sounds are the barely audible hum of the computer, the little hard drive continuing, inexorable, to empty its secrets into the USB drive whose red light blinks, betraying my crime.
I should move. Tear out the drive. Close the files. Scream. Cry. Something. But I'm paralyzed, hypnotized by his silent presence.
He finally advances. His steps are soft on the thick carpet. He circles the desk with the sovereign gait of a predator inspecting his violated territory. His gaze moves from my face, doubtless livid under the bluish glow of the screen, to the USB drive, then to the progress bar.
He stops right beside me. I can feel the warmth of his body, breathe the familiar scent of his soap, mixed with the indefinable smell of the night. An intimacy that becomes, at this moment, the most horrible thing in the world.
He leans in. His breath brushes my temple. I close my eyes, expecting a blow, a slap, a mortal embrace.
His hand lands on mine, which is clenched on the armrest of the chair. His palm is surprisingly warm. He closes his fingers over mine, a gesture that could almost pass for tender if it didn't freeze my soul.
"Mia Vita...," he murmurs, in a voice so low, so hoarse, it seems to come from the depths of the earth.
It's not a caress. It's a verdict.
With a slow, almost respectful movement, he places his other hand on the mouse. He doesn't snatch it away. He doesn't brutally close the files. He clicks on "Cancel Transfer." The progress bar disappears. The screen returns to the desktop, innocently.
Then, with a delicacy that makes me shudder, he removes the USB drive. The little red light goes out. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it like a macabre curiosity.
He straightens up, releasing me from his immediate proximity, but his grip is stronger than ever.
"Do you have a headache, Sofia?" he finally asks, in a neutral, conversational tone. "Elena's treatments weren't enough?"
I can't speak. My throat is a dry desert. I shake my head, a minuscule, pathetic movement.
He nods, looking thoughtful.
"It's true. Some pains... are deeper."
He then tosses the USB drive in the air, catching it one-handed with a chilling nonchalance.
"Marco, call Prosecutor Luca Conti," he orders without raising his voice, certain of being heard.
From the shadow of the hallway, Marco's voice replies, impassive.
"Right away, Boss."
Lorenzo places his hands flat on the desk, on either side of me, imprisoning me in his shadow. His face is finally illuminated by the light of the screen. There is no anger. No hate. A disappointment so deep, so absolute, that it is worse than fury.
"You wanted to see, mia Vita? You wanted to know? Very well. You will stay there. You will watch. And you will finally understand the price of the things you tried to touch."
He straightens up and goes to sit in the chair opposite the desk, the one reserved for guests, for underlings. He crosses his legs, places the USB drive on the coffee table, like a centerpiece.
He lights a cigar. The flame of his lighter flares, illuminating his dark eyes that do not leave me. The smoke rises, slowly, forming a veil between us.
We wait. He, calm and murderous. Me, petrified in the seat of power, which has become my defendant's dock.
The real treatment is over. Now, the surgery without anesthesia begins.
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Sofia
The cigar smoke draws perfect circles on the ceiling. Each puff is an eyelash flutter, a measured breath in the leaden silence that has fallen over the office. Lorenzo no longer looks at me. His gaze is lost somewhere beyond the window, in the black night that resembles a shroud. He waits. I wait. We wait for the end of our world.
I count the seconds in the dull ticking of the wall clock. Each pulse is a nail driven into the coffin of what remained of us. My hand, where he touched it, burns. The rest of my body is ice. I am a crack in the marble of his fortress, a fault through which everything will rush in. And he will force me to watch.
Headlights sweep the window, casting a ghostly glow into the room. A car comes up the driveway. It's not the police car I imagined. It's a black sedan, discreet, funereal.
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- Writer
