42

Eros

Three men kneel before me.

All of them have their hand bound behind their backs. Each is bleeding from multiple wounds. Broken noses, cracked skulls. Lycus has a gun pressed to the first man's head, a tall Greek gentleman in his late fifties, getting heavy with age and wrinkled from a hard life.

"You all know why you are here." I pace in front of them, watching their reactions. Above us, the recording studio is quiet. Nobody would dare work while beneath them, men died.

"Yes, Eros. I know why we are here." Zale speaks for the others. The old captain dares raise his chin to look me in the eye.

Lycus brings his gun down hard, smacking him in the skull. Zale grunts and hunches forward, groaning.

I watch the pathetic display and feel nothing but pity.

"Why did you do it?" I ask him.

He's quiet for a moment. The old Greek man is in considerable pain, and he knows he's about to die, but there's still a dignity to him. I respect that—better to die like a man than to face the end like a