Moments later, I hear feet. A key in the lock, the door opens. I remain as I am, hands still bound behind my back—they cut my hands free while I eat under the cold eyes of three armed guards, guns pointed at me, fingers on triggers, and then re-bind me when I've finished.
The door opens.
"Sophia." Rafael's voice is curiously eager. "I have someone I'd like you to meet."
Fuck.
I sit up and turn to face him; a woman of perhaps twenty or twenty-five stands before him, shivering, tear-tracks on her cheeks. I don't know her. But I know what's next: I talk, or he tortures her in front of me.
I sigh, and lift my eyes to hers. "English?"
"No English," she mumbles. "Español."
I address her in Spanish. "I will tell you the unpleasant truth. He is going to hurt you very badly to try to get me to tell him information." Her eyes shimmer wet with fear. "Do you have a child?"
Rafael watches and listens, curious, letting this play out.
She nods. "A son. Alejandro. He is three."
I search for the ice and the steel that have gotten me through so much, and I wrap myself in it. I amLa Víbora. La Reina de Hielo."I have a son, too. He is ten years old. That man is his father. He wants me to tell him where my son is so he can make my son like him. I will not."
The woman's eyes close as she comprehends my meaning, my intent. "I understand."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "Forgive me."
She shakes her head. "There is nothing to forgive. I would do the same."
Rafael has a tool in his left hand, which he tucks under his armpit so he can give a slow clap. "How lovely. How inspiring.” He grips the tool once more—a pair of industrial bolt cutters. "How stupid."
He digs in a hip pocket and produces a large, black-bladed folding knife, and from the other pocket a cigar lighter. These he places on the floor at his feet, holds the bolt cutters in his hands, and glances over his shoulders. Two burly men enter and take the woman by the arms. One grips her right hand by the wrist while the other pins her jaw to force her to look at me.
Raffael's eyes never leave mine as he severs her thumb at the first joint with a swift clack of the tool. The woman screams, sags, sobs. The men let her drop to the floor.
Rafael tosses the cutters to one of the men, and then holds the blade in the flame until the metal is red hot. He cauterizes the stump with the flat of the knife, and the scent of boiling blood and seared flesh fills the room.
The woman's screams are breathless and silent.
Rafael rises to his feet, ushers his men out, and pauses in the doorway. "I'll leave you two to discuss things."
Fuck.
Can I hold out? Once, I could have. When I was Inez, fully and truly. When my heart was atrophied and shriveled and cold and empty and calcified in my chest. But now?
I don't know. Even for Little Ren, can I sit here and watch Rafael cut this innocent woman to pieces?
I force myself to sit up straight and stare blankly at Rafael as he assesses me.
He shakes his head. "Women," he grumbles, his tone derogatory and derisive. "Your new bleeding heart will only allow so much, I think. A few more fingers and you'll break." He leaves, locking the door behind himself.
When he's gone, I watch the woman cradle her hand to her belly, shuddering silent sobs. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
She crawls into a corner as far from me as she can get, curls up facing the wall, and weeps softly.
I lay back down and let guilt eat me.
"If you break, it will be for nothing," she whispers, eventually. "You cannot break."
The hate I claimed to have rid myself of erupts from deep within me, white-hot and calculating; it seems I'm not done hating Rafael after all.
