The man’s voice is syrupy with contrition. “Señor, I have learned the error of my ways. I will live a life beyond reproach from now on.”

I rub my free hand over my jaw. “I was going to hand you into the chief of police. He lives at this address, I believe?” I indicate the nearby white stucco house, all its lights extinguished and shutters drawn.

“You can put me down here,” the man says in an eager whisper. “I’ll make my own way home. Tomorrow, a messenger will come to your house with a suitcase full of money. Used notes. The least I can do for you on your birthday and for your impending nuptials.”

“The very least,” I agree. I drop the man on the cobbles at my feet, and then hoist him up and slam him against a post. “But still not good enough.”

“Wha—what are you doing?” he wheezes, the breath knocked out of him.

Instead of answering, I tie him to the post, and then yank down his pants and underwear. His privates shrink up in the cool air. From behind my mask, I grin at him, my hand drifting to the hilt of my sword.

The man’s eyes widen in horror. “You wouldn’t!”

I draw my sword, and he all but sobs with fear. With the tip of my blade, I tickle the end of his floppy privates. How pathetic they look in this state, like the wattles of an old chicken.

He gasps and twists, trying to escape. “No, please!”

I sheath my sword w

ith a theatrical sigh. “Well, all right then. But I was just starting to have a little fun.” I dig something out of my pocket. A small cardboard sign, which I tie around his dick and balls, yanking the string tight. Maybe they’ll drop off by morning.

I draw my sword once more and hold the tip against his throat, not a trace of humor in my expression now. The man’s Adam’s apple bobs against the blade.

“Bastardo. Fucking asshole. I’ll kill you for this.”

His threats might have more impact if he wasn’t whispering. He still thinks he’s going to get out of this without any consequences. “Why are you not screaming for help? Afraid to shout and wake the chief of police?”

The man just glares at me, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“Or are you worried about drawing the neighbors to their windows?” I press the blade against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Because they’ll recognize you, won’t they, Police Chief Martínez?”

Martínez’s face goes slack with shock.

“Photographs. Stained clothing. Ropes. They’re all on their way to police headquarters in Madrid,” I tell him. “To an officer who can’t be bribed.” I lean close and whisper, “Like I can’t be bribed.”

Above his head, I carve a mark into the post, as fast as lightning. Then I salute him ironically and saunter away. Come morning, the townspeople will find their chief of police tied to a post outside his own home, a sign dangling from his cold, pathetic genitals that reads VIOLADOR. RAPIST. Above his head will be three slashes. The letter Z.

I melt into the shadows for the very last time, and the Black Fox, as Spain has known him these past fifteen years, is no more.

1

Zacarias

Two months later

“To us, mi amor.”

Valeria holds out her wine glass to me, and the ruby red liquid flashes in the midday sun. I smile broadly, toast her, and take a mouthful of wine.

“To us,” I agree warmly. I cast my eyes over my new wife. She’s forty-three, a divorcée, and a handsome woman with a crown of thick chestnut hair. Her cheekbones are high and angular and her wide mouth proud. We met at the opera in Madrid; or rather, I was passing by and saw her in a gold, floor-length gown. Framed in the doorway, she dripped elegance and beauty, but that’s not what had me following her inside.

I knew that this was the woman I had to marry.

I felt…nothing for her. I’ve held women in my arms, going through the motions and saying all the right things in the hopes that love will spring forth. Always, my heart remains empty. It’s been many years since I sought out or pretended to feel love. It causes too much pain for everyone.

With Valeria, I don’t have to pretend, and the relief that she doesn’t mind almost feels like happiness. I watch her as she lifts her toy poodle, Blanca, into her lap and makes kissy noises on top of her head. She’s more affectionate with her dog than she is with me.

A moment later, Valeria checks the slim gold watch on her wrist, and her expression hardens. “She’s late.”

Tags: Brianna Hale Romance
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