The Prototype

4. Questions Are Dangerous

MARCELLUS

The black leather chair cradled my weight as I leaned back into it, one ankle settling across the opposite knee while my loafers rested against the edge of the desk, the polished surface reflecting the low glow of the lamp and the faint movement of smoke. The cigar between my fingers, its wrapper firm beneath my grip as I lifted it to my mouth and drew in slowly, heat blooming across my tongue before the smoke filled my lungs. I exhaled, smoke heavy in my mouth before it drifted up and stalled above the desk, dulling the irritation that had been sitting in my chest since the meeting.

Watching her kill herself might have been entertaining in theory, but it would never happen on her terms, not here, not under my roof, and not when she decided the time or place suited her. Nothing in this estate moved according to anyone else's will.

The level of determination it took to deliberately deprive the brain of oxygen long enough to disrupt cardiac rhythm was notable, even accounting for the damage it could cause to the liver, kidneys, or brain. Her pulse barely present by the time her body hit the floor, slow enough to tell me she started holding her breath well before she ever left the conference room. That alone made it clear this was not impulse. It was planned. Practiced.

It was not her first time doing it.

Most people could not do that. The body revolted long before damage occurred, lungs burning, muscles contracting, the need for air overpowering any attempt at control. She bypassed that entirely. keeping her body still and composed while systems failed underneath her, maintaining the appearance of calm until she succeeded.

And that's what made it pathetic.

Ricco's hands had moved quickly, compressions steady as he forced her body to resume involuntary function, overriding her will the moment it failed. The nurse ran a full scan afterward, cautious enough to restrict visitors while she monitored neurological response and internal function, making sure no lasting damage had been done. 

That woman is hell.

 She's a determined woman, I see that. Determined enough to make a statement even if it killed her, and skilled enough to come close. She understood impact. She understood performance. She knew exactly how to leave an impression.

A knock landed against the door, sharp and measured, the sound carrying just enough weight to demand acknowledgment.  My gaze lifted from the desk "Come in" the order left my mouth low and even, granting entry. The door opened to Nino and Ricco stepping inside, both of them moving with the same disciplined awareness they carried everywhere, shoulders squared, expressions unreadable.

Nino stopped a few steps in, chin lifting as his attention fixed on me. "Romeo should be arriving shortly," he said, his tone clipped but respectful, hands resting loosely at his sides as if ready to move the moment he was needed.

My head dipped once in acknowledgment, the movement minimal. "Good." The word left my mouth with a faint edge, breath steady as I leaned back slightly into the chair. "I want him inside those files as soon as he walks through that door." A pause followed, brief but intentional. "Preferably before she decides to finish the job herself."

Ricco's mouth twitched before a low, disbelieving laugh slipped out of his chest. He shook his head, one hand lifting to rake over the back of his neck as he shifted his weight. "I honestly thought she was full of shit in that meeting," he admitted, irritation edging into his voice. "We've dealt with plenty of women who talk reckless. Discipline usually fixes that fast." His jaw tightened. "Never had one actually try to take herself out. Not like that. She didn't hesitate." He exhaled sharply. "Might need eyes on her around the clock."