NICCOLÒ

32. R A T

The slow sound of blood dripping to the dirtied, concrete floor echoed around the warehouse. Anton could hear nothing but the sound of his own heavy breathing, almost panting, his heart racing. His nose was broken - he was sure of it - so he had to gasp for air through his mouth to avoid the pain; what time was it?

He'd only been here for a couple of hours; arms numb now, from the tight ropes strapping him to the chair. Didn't even have to look up to know that there were guns pointed at him.

Still light outside. No chance to escape.

He was going to die here. That was the price of becoming a traitor, for running; the price of spying. A rat.

Anton stared at his ripped trousers, dirty with mud and dust and blood, through his swollen eyes; he hadn't slept in days. It was hard to run from a mafia family. No time to sleep, to rest, just keep moving - always moving - like a rat in a maze, always being watched and never finding a way out.

It was the only way. Romano wouldn't have waited for an excuse, any explanation he could come up with; as soon as Anton had heard that they thought he was a spy, he ran. He was stupid enough to think he could make it out alive - try to leave the country - but they found him.

So he'd confess. He was going to die anyway, and at least if he told them what they wanted to hear, it would be quick. Painless. As simple as falling asleep.

Drip. Drip.

The blood spattered the floor, forming a small puddle - only the size of a coin or so. He knew that soon there would be a lake of blood, enough for him to drown in. He didn't want to die - but he wouldn't be given a choice.

It was him, he was the rat.

I am the rat, he repeated in his mind, over and over, practising his lines for his final performance.

I am the rat.

---

Cee stared at Flo's eyes, stared at the picture. It was definitely her, despite the bruising. She looked terrified, one eye wide. A sickly, purple bruise was spreading across her jaw, blood smeared across her mouth; her head was shaved roughly, clumps of hair sticking out haphazardly - one of her eyes was swollen shut. She looked broken - she didn't even look like she was wearing any clothes.

She hadn't realised she was crying until a horrified tear slipped down her cheek, splashing against the table.

A little encouragement.

While she'd been sipping hot chocolate with Niccolò, Flo had been beaten within an inch of her life, humiliated and hurt-

A little encouragement.

She was no closer to finding any files - not that she'd even tried to log into Niccolò's laptop - she'd wasted all that time getting drunk-

A little encouragement.

She ran to the kitchen sink, just in time to throw up; acidic, foul-tasting liquid swirled down the drain as her stomach lurched painfully. She could hear a roaring sound in her ears; she gripped the edge of the kitchen surface until her knuckles turned white but nothing stopped the sick, heavy, painful throbbing in her lungs. She'd let Flo down.

Not yet, she told herself fiercely. You still have time.

Shakily, she lowered herself to the floor, her legs giving out: she hit the floor with a soft bump. Across the room, the bouquet loomed menacingly, its shadow crawling up the wall and choking the light from the sun. She had to find those files, and she had to find them fast.