Page 66 of A Touch of Dark
“A little over four years.”
“After your brother’s first appeal.”
If he’s surprised that I choose to divulge that bit of information now, he doesn’t show it. He’s stone again, completely unreadable. Though not quite…
I close my eyes and brace my palms flat against the table. Strange. He reveals more to me in darkness than I’m comfortable deciphering. Tension resonates from his end. His hand is braced against the wooden surface and vibrates ever so slightly, indiscernible to the naked eye.
“So you remember now,” he says.
“That’s why you hate my father,” I admit, opening my eyes. “Because of Mathias. Isn’t it?”
He inhales deeply as if just hearing the name stings. “A better man than Heyworth Thorne would have handled things differently. With Mathias. And with you.”
But how? I’m not brave enough to ask out loud. Instead, I pose a different question. “What was he like, your brother?”
“Human,” Damien replies. “A particularly decent one, but human nonetheless.”
“And…” I swallow hard to gather up the nerve to broach this topic. “You think he’s innocent?”
“I know he was.” The grit in his tone warns me to back off. Discuss something else.
So I pick the obvious route of questioning. “So how did…doyou plan to use me against my father? I’m sure you know all about the press conference tomorrow. I bet you have some brilliant masterplan to derail it.”
I expect dramatics. Laughter. Or for him to throw his head back and announce some villainous plan so evil that I’ll quake in my heels.
“How to use you? I don’t know,” he admits, each word sounding as though he had to rip it from his throat. “Expose you? Corrupt you? Your fate presents an interesting conundrum.”
“How so?”
“Well…” He tilts his head thoughtfully and shrugs. “I can’t decide whether or not your disgrace or your death would matter in the end.”
Honesty. That’s what he promised. I tell myself that as horror descends like a punch to the stomach. He promised me cruel, bone-chilling honesty.
“Y-you’ve thought about killing me?”
“I have once,” he replies, his tone level. “The way I’m sure you’ve fantasized about destroying all of those who have wronged you.”
“Punching, maybe,” I rasp. “Not murder.”
His cold laugh undercuts the intensity in his tone. “You may lie, but we both know the truth.”
“So why haven’t you killed me, then?”
“Therein lies the dilemma, Ms. Thorne.”
Coming from a normal man, those words would be the punchline to a terrible joke. I could choke out ahaha,throw my drink in his face, and storm away. I wouldn’t be driven to dissect his answer into a million tiny pieces. One of them being: Did his supposed change of heart come before or after he met me in person?
“This has been very…illuminating, Mr. Villa.” I flex my fingers against the table, though I’m not sure if I intend to stand.
His hand captures mine before I can decide, pinning it flat with the barest amount of pressure. “Sí. I’m glad, Ms. Thorne. Now, I would like you to extend the same favor,por favor.”
The amount of patience he’s shown tonight has me worried. What could he possibly want to know that four years of spying—a timeframe I’ll stress over later—couldn’t garner him? Nothing good.
“Fine. Ask away, Mr. Villa.” I reach for a slice of pizza to disguise how my teeth are chattering with nerves. One impulsive bite later, I remember his murderous intentions. “Wait. You can ask me whatever you wantafteryou prove this pizza isn’t poisoned. Take a bite.”
He doesn’t move. A refusal? Not quite. He reaches into his pocket instead and withdraws a device too small to be a cell phone: his earpiece. “Bring a plate and silverware to my location,gracias,” he snaps into it.
Damn. I’m suddenly aware of the grease on my fingers. What kind of man, no matter how polished, uses protocol for a slice of pizza? Then something clicks. No one even remotely familiar with Georgianos would ever show such disdain for it.
