Page 108 of Famine

“Now,” Famine says, “eat.”

It takes me longer than it should to realize that the horseman isn’t going to kill the man, like I assumed. He’s using him as a food tester, making sure that the dishes prepared weren’t laced with poison.

“And the wine—don’t forget to try that,” the horseman encourages.

The two of us watch the man in silence as he eats and drinks his way through the meal. The guard’s eyes are flinty as he does Famine’s bidding, but he polishes everything off.

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to keel over, the guard stands.

“I was hoping to eat with Heitor,” Famine says casually, and I’m impressed the horseman actually remembered the man’s name.

“I will let him know he was missed,” the guard responds. “I’m sure he regrets his absence.”

“Does he now?” Famine says.

The two men stare each other down. Eventually, the corner of the Reaper’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile. “You will find me Heitor, and youwillbring him back here. He and I are to have a little chat.”

My stomach dips again at the thought of one of Rocha’s own men forcing their boss to do something. From everything I’ve heard, loyalty is a big deal in cartels. But Famine’s wrath is barely leashed as it is. And I’m in the crosshairs of it all.

The Reaper sits forward as the man leaves the room, and he begins serving himself. When I don’t follow suit, Famine serves me as well.

“I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to sit next to you and not get bombarded with all your petty thoughts,” Famine says, pouring us both a glass of wine. Setting the bottle down, he picks up his glass.

I glance at the horseman. I’ve been distracted today, it’s true. Distracted by our violent entrance intoSão Paulo, by Famine’s barely muzzled brutality, and by Heitor’s unsolicited touch.

Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I stand.

The Reaper reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Stay.”

“Is that an order or a request?” I say. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but like Rocha, I don’t really want to follow orders at the moment.

The horseman thins his eyes at me. “Would it make a difference?” he asks, his words sharp.

I stare at him for an extra beat.

It would. It does.

And today I don’t want to play games.

Slipping my hand out from under his, I begin to leave.

I think the horseman’s going to call on Heitor’s men to stop me.

Instead, he says, “If that’s the way you feel about it, then it’s a request.”

I stop and take a deep breath. I know Famine conceding anything is a big deal, and maybe on another day I’d be satisfied with his response, but after Heitor’s ass-grab, I’m fuckingoverbeing forced to fit into roles men have cut out for me.

“For this to work—truly work—you’re going to have to respect me,” I say, my back still to the horseman.

“A tall order from a human,” he responds.

I’m not angry, but I’ve had enough. I begin moving towards the exit again.

“But I suppose I can make an exception for you,” he adds.

I glance back at Famine, annoyance simmering just beneath my skin. But the Reaper’s eyes are full of mirth. He’s being playful, and for once playful doesn’t involve someone dying.

It’s that look, more than anything, that convinces me to stay. Not that I’m great company at the moment.

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