Page 25 of Violent Possession
The realization strips him of his humanity, and the anger that returns to his face is different. Colder, more focused. He lets outa laugh and takes a step forward, no more than necessary to remind me that, for him, the acceptable limit is a moving line.
“You’re different from the others,” he says. I can only imagine all the fights that brought him here: perhaps a childhood of wringing rats’ necks, an adolescence of knocking out teeth in a portable toilet, a small and violent life. “They always tremble first. You just wait. Thinking you can bullshit your way to the end, right?”
“You are not the end.”
“It’s just the two of us here,” he says, stopping an arm’s length away from me. “If I just turned your ‘obstacle’ into a puddle of blood on the floor, what makes you think I wouldn’t do the same to you right now?”
He’s testing me, searching for a crack in my composure. He won’t find one.
“You probably could,” I say. The honesty of my answer seems to surprise him. “But I know how this ends if you kill me now. You know it, too.”
“There’s always a Plan B for you people, isn’t there?” he says through gritted teeth.
I look at his hand, then back to his eyes. They burn like plasma, but behind it, there’s a shadow of doubt. Parentheses of humanity.
“You would attack me. There would be a fight. Blood. Maybe you’d even break my neck before anyone broke down that door. And then what?”
I take a minimal, subtle step. Now he is the one being invaded.
“Let’s assume you escape. What happens next? A man with a metal arm, wounded, penniless, hunted for killing not one, buttwomen from a very important family. Every hitman, every corrupt cop, every street gang would be after you. Yourlife would be reduced to running, until the day you couldn’t anymore.”
I stop, very close to him now. The smell of his sweat and blood is palpable.
“Or,” I say, lowering my voice even more, “you can stay here. In this room. Drink a glass of my whiskey. And find out what happens when, for the first time, your survival becomes an investment for someone who understands what you were made for.”
This time, he doesn’t laugh. He scans the room, examines the rug, then the crystal decanter, and finally my eyes. He’s calculating if it’s a trap, a humiliation, if there’s some sadism embedded in the offer. Maybe there is. But there are no lies.
“You’re not the first one to try and use me as a fighting dog,” he says. His voice has lost its certain edge. “Doesn’t always end well for the owners.”
“Am I negotiating with afighting dog?”
He bites the corner of his mouth, a nervous spasm that is a smile. He has a hunger for a fight, but not for obedience. Perfect.
I turn my body, walk back to my chair, and sit down, gesturing to a pair of crystal glasses on the table. “If you want to, kill me. Just don’t waste the whiskey.”
Griffin doesn’t move right away. He’s wrestling with the calculation, which is why I’m betting everything on him.
Finally, he moves to the opposite armchair, never turning his back to me. He sits down in the chair across from my desk, unceremoniously, and allows himself to sink into the backrest, his knees falling apart naturally. His muscles relax into the soft upholstery. He is expansive.
“So talk,investor. What do you gain by keeping me alive?”
I smile. He is a sight to behold.
I pour two fingers of aged whiskey into a glass. I slide it across the desk to the edge. He takes it, sniffs it, and hovers the glass before his lips, never taking his eyes from mine.
“My family is too large,” I say. “You know what I’m talking about. There’s a micro-management of power tainted by a discrepancy of ideas. Past a certain degree of importance, every alliance comes with an undeclared termination clause, no matter the names involved.”
He lets out a pained half-laugh before downing the glass of whiskey in a single gulp. “What, you’re going to send me to kill your own cousin?”
“Maybe.”
He falls silent. This time, the exhaustion is noticeable. His body finally gives in to the pain. I see the bleeding below his chest growing. He wouldn’t get very far anyway.
I take a gray handkerchief from the outer pocket of my suit. I extend it to him.
“Negotiate before you bleed out,” I say.
He takes it, presses it against the wound, and smiles at me.
