Chapter 4: The Trigger Point

In my hands, the gun feels weighty and frigid.

As I direct it at the man strapped to the chair, I observe how his fractured body quivers.

He slowly raises his head, his eyes wide with sheer terror, blood streaming from his nostrils.

His mouth moves in a last-ditch appeal.

"Please," he says in a barely perceptible murmur. "Please don’t."

Ludwig leans nonchalantly against the wall behind me.

His gentle yet ruthless voice pierces the dense atmosphere.

His words are, "Pull the trigger,"

I can hardly hear anything else because my heart is pounding so fiercely.

I know what happens to people who refuse Ludwig Gallo, yet I still want to scream, throw the gun across the room, and go.

In this case, there are no second chances.

Just surviving.

Death only.

I raise the firearm.

I grip the handle so firmly that my fingers shake.

Between the man's chest and the empty space beside him, the barrel vacillates.

I'll cross a line I'll never be able to get back if I shoot him.

I might not survive this room if I don't.

No clean option exists.

Just penalties and blood.

I try to locate bravery in my boiling tummy by closing my eyes for a half-second.

I then aim at the ground near the man's foot, move the barrel a little, and squeeze the trigger.

The concrete is hit by the explosion.

Like a cannon boom, the sound reverberates off the walls.

The man babbles through tears as he shouts and jerks violently on the chair.

He breaks more quickly than I anticipated.

In a blur, he blurts forth names, transactions, and betrayals.

He was most likely vowed to keep the secrets to himself.

I can hardly believe what I just did as I look down at the revolver in my palm.

The guards tensed, their fingers moving in the direction of their weapons.

Danger thickens the air in the room.

Ludwig remains still.

His gaze is unreadable as he stares in silence.

His eyes are like a butterfly on a board, holding me in place.

Then, without saying a word, he moves forward, draws his own firearm, and hits the man's skull with a single, clean shot.

Blood pools beneath the man as his body sags forward on the chair.

Slowly, Ludwig turns to look at me.

He says, "You disobeyed," though his tone remains uncannily composed.

I tense up but remain silent.

He would not accept an apology.

And I would only be slain more quickly if I were weak.

He takes a step forward.

It seems like the air around him changes, gets heavier, and gets darker.

"But," Ludwig pauses, "you got results."

Something deadly is glinting in his eyes.

It's not a sign of approval.

It's a calculation.

He slowly walks around me, examining me as though I were a conundrum he hasn't decided whether to solve or destroy.

He whispers, "Maybe you're not as foolish as I thought."

His face flashes the smallest smirk.

"Or maybe you’re just delaying your death."

He tilts his head slightly and stops in front of me once more.

"Time will tell."

I don't wince.

Not now.

Every nerve in my body begs me to flee.

Outside, though, I stand my ground.

Because weakness is a death sentence here.

His head jerks in the direction of the door.

"Follow," he orders them.

And I do.

Because it would be suicide to turn him down now.

The farther we walk, the darker and colder the passageways get.

Like a labyrinth made to capture souls, the mansion seems to go on forever.

Ludwig moves slowly and deliberately in front of me.

How many others have been on this journey before me, and how many of them have ever returned?

Most likely none.

When he pauses in front of a heavy steel door, the lock clicks open when he enters a code into the keypad.

There is a tiny, sterilised chamber inside.

In the middle is a table with a thick folder arranged carefully on top.

The lone item, the only furnishings.

A place for bargaining or treachery.

Or both.

Ludwig moves to the side and motions for me to come in.

I do, cautiously.

With a hefty thump, he lets the door swing shut behind him and follows.

"Open it," he says.

Going over to the table, I open the folder.

Several glossy pictures spill out.

Both sexes are dressed up, drinking champagne, shaking hands, and laughing like old friends.

Predators posing as people.

I look up at Ludwig, who observes me with the detached coolness of a man who is betting on my longevity.

He declares, "These are my enemies," "Tonight, they meet."

I scowl.

"Meet for what?"

He gives a gentle, soothing smile.

"Work. Offers. Betrayals. Everything that is customary.

He turns over a picture of a man wearing a velvet jacket, grinning like he rules the world.

"Matteo Russo," says Ludwig. See what he has planned. Listen, then report.

He gives me a tiny black wallet that has a phoney ID.

A new moniker.

Fresh context.

My back was painted with a new target.

He goes on, "You'll go alone,"

"No contingency. No errors.

Panic rises, and I swallow it.

"And if they find out who I really am?" I enquire in a harsh voice.

He gives a noncommittal shrug.

"Then I suppose we will both find out how good you really are."

I make myself give a nod.

I have no other option.

I didn't.

I'm standing in front of a mirror an hour later, dressed in a black silk outfit that fits me like a second skin.

My clutch has a knife that is disguised as a lipstick tube.

In my hand, the burner phone feels hefty.

If I'm fortunate enough to make it, one call.

Just one signal.

One last-ditch, desperate hope.

Outside, a car was waiting and the driver was quiet.

The guards were expressionless.

I go out into the night and into a world where I could be slain with a single glance.

At the foot of the steps is Ludwig.

He appears to be a part of the shadows.

As I get closer, he takes a step closer.

My wrist is caught by one hand.

He continues, "You belong to me now, little thief," in a menacingly low voice.

I tense up but remain silent.

His breath feels cold across my skin as he leans in.

"And if you betray me," he murmurs, "not even death will save you."

I make myself look him in the eye and not be afraid.

Not because I have no fear.

But I can no longer afford to be afraid since it is a weakness.

I give one nod.

Then, without turning around, I head towards the car.

With a dull thump, the car door slams shut.

Ahead, the city lights are icy and piercing, like blades in the dark.

In the tinted window, I see my reflection.

Ophelia Barclay is no longer the girl staring back at me.

She is a spirit.

A weapon.

A pawn with survival instincts and silk.

The cold plastic of the burner phone bites into my palm as I grip it more tightly.

Ludwig says, "You belong to me now, little thief," and I can still hear it in my mind.

But tonight, I am nobody's property. Not to him or them, I'm just to myself.

And they have no idea who they're dealing with if they believe I'll simply roll over and die.

The automobile accelerates into the dazzling trap ahead, into the night.

About Matteo Russo.

To adversaries who, if they catch even one false breath, will rip me to pieces.

No pity.

No turning back.

Just onwards.