Final Call for Mercy

18

T-5

I nodded sharply at the guards that stood in front of the double doors that led to the meeting room. The doors swung open and I entered, stopping behind my chair at the head of the table. The chair my father once occupied. The chair that now belongs to me. The chair I will make sure no one but me will sit in.

Dion Bisset sat on the opposite end of the table, his fingers interlaced on its surface. He followed my every movement as I sat down on my chair and leaned back, placing one hand on the table and allowing my nails to tap a slow rhythm.

"Miss Bianchi," he spoke, clearing his throat. The slight wavering of his voice and hesitation between the two words put me at ease. After working up the courage, he continued, "you said we should speak in person? Is something wrong?"

It would have been great to see him more up close. To notice if he was sweating with the nerves he so obviously felt. If his eyes stared at me with the slight tinge of fear I suspected they held, or the weakened flares of contempt that, to my face, he couldn't allow himself to show. 

He thought he knew why he was here and if he was lucky, he came thinking today could be the day he fools me and walks out the victor. He'd confirm to the other duplicitous organizations that Anastasia Bianchi was as unworthy as they had feared. 

But, he also knew there was a possibility he had drawn the wrong cards. And if he did, he'd never see France again. He'd go back to his home country in a box. A message to everyone else that Anastasia Bianchi is, actually, the only one worthy to lead, and anyone who disagreed would follow in his path.

So, his eyes held both fear and contempt. There were two possibilities he considered and each was at a separate extremity of a line. Depending on which one awaited him, the emotions in his eyes will shine through.

I watched him for a moment, enjoying the sight of a traitor shake upon seeing me. In the quiet room, the rough sound of him swallowing back saliva echoed faintly. My fingers tapped one last time on the wooden surface.

"Reza Batavia is down," I informed him. His gaze fell from me and landed on the table. Once, then twice, and after a moment, a third time, he blinked. His thumb jerked slightly and then his eyes were back on me.

"I wasn't aware."

My eyes bore into his. "It happened on Monday. Fifteen of her hotels were burned to the ground and all, but a handful of her men went down with them."

The question in his eyes was clear. "Do you know who did it?" Was it you?

"I do."

"Who?" He tried to make the question as neutral as possible, but the desperation seeped through.

"Batavia came to Sicily," I said, instead of answering his question. "Came crawling to my territory, looking for me not long after it happened."

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Is she alive?"

"Why wouldn't she be?" I quipped, expecting his question.

This was where the game began.

Dion Bisset stayed silent, his eyes looking down at his hands as he fidgeted with them. This was the moment where he realized that he had not been lucky. That he had drawn the wrong card and his fate lay at the hands of my knowledge. That of which, he had no idea how far extended.

"Is it because she was working behind my back? Because she was creating a resistance to overthrow me and take my power?" I asked, lacing my voice with childlike curiosity that to his ears must have sounded predatory. "Do you think I killed her because of that?"