Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXV. A Motherʼs Work Is Never Done

11
Scott
Punta del Este, Uruguay 
Montevideo, Midasʼ Court
Territory: Pinochet
July 14th, 2004
Time: 10:00 AM 
_____________________________

In the decadence of the Uruguyan beachside, Scott felt he was sitting in the most wintry hell in the world. The sun-drenched race-track bowed towards the marina, where the multimillion dollar yachts caressed the sapphire seas, the skyscraper apartments yawned to meet the cloudless azure skies, and as Scott walked the coastline – stark in sterling – he watched the rich and privileged enjoy the toys of their playground. The winter months were scorching with the intensity of the summer, a dangerous concept in Uruguay, and rather than ask questions, the members of the Order entertained themselves. Ignoring fate. Trying to play God.

Scott looked onwards, his notes on Ezi and his witchhunt for Vyolèt Domingo in his vice-like grip. Ezi was supposed to find him, and he was supposed to have clarity on where El Dorado was, how the city was living, how it was breathing, how the assassins of the night moved. And yet, his leads were dry as dust.

On the Uruguyan peninsula, his dreams of Yale, of the sciences, of studying began to fade under the might of the Orderʼs pens, demands.

F*cking Vyolèt Domingo. Stupid ghost.

A delicate cough ripped through the room, calling his attention softly.

"Mojito?" Psyche asked, peering at him curiously. Under the blinding sunlight of the cabana, Scott watched as she placed a sprig of mint into a freshly shaven mojito, with the poise, grace, and delicacy of a flower.

"Of course," he hummed in reply, going back to burying himself in his thoughts.

The racetrack sparkled with Midasʼ golden touch. Chic, upscale, and classy, with its bars impeccably fitted in blackened timber and vinyls, Scott took in the scents of Monte Cristo cigars as he ruminated on the past few days. The endless piano ballads screaming their soliloquies, the smoke that devoured him against the cherry wood flooring and ceilings, the four nights and four days of f*cking Emilia, in that little black dress and little straw hat, f*cking her until he was a slave to his senses. The Order had a seductive, exquisite taste to it, but it always left a sour taste for Scott.

The marriage of heaven and hell.

"Psyche," Scott called out, drinking his mojito slowly, relishing in the warmth and dry sweetness.

"You know the Cenci. What can you tell me about them?"

He slid her twenty ouroboros, his fingers grazing her br*ast. Psyche watched him, guarded.

"Your family commands the Orderʼs armies, sir," Psyche murmured, inching away from him.  "Shouldnʼt you already know?"

"Iʼve been out of the Territories for a bit. Enlighten me – I only know the horror stories. What happened at the Needleʼs Eye, for starters. With Pinochet, but not with Midas."

Scott handed her another twenty. Psyche relaxed her shoulders a bit, but stared at him, tearfully.

"Theyʼre share the same coin, just different sides, different faces," she whispered. "Theyʼre monsters, sir."

"How so?" he asked, inching closer to her. When he touched her, she shook like an earthquake, fingers cold as ice.

"Tonight weʼre toasting to the death of his sons, and as we do, Pinochet and Midas are going to take turns at Midasʼ daughter, Zoë, sir.  They are bankers that finance the Orderʼs banks and in return, milk the joy out of Latin America. Please do not ask me more," she whispered, nervously.