Play Your Hand
Revenge is an expensive proposition.
Tucked away near the edge of the carnival fairgrounds, in contrast to the bright allure of public midway attractions, stood a Romani wagon decorated in faded reds and golds. It appeared as a castaway, allowed to exist under the suspicion of onlookers, and few visitors paid it any real attention. Salvatore held no such reservations and directed his steps toward the dwelling with malicious intentions. An engraved signpost above the entrance door said “Madame Florentina, Mystic”. Hanging below it, another sign in handwritten calligraphic text, said “No Refunds”.
Salvatore walked up the rickety wooden steps to the door as they announced his presence with long, groaning creaks. He knocked, heavy handed, already certain the woman was a fraud. If she could do as advertised by word of mouth, then her residence would reflect fortunes matching her abilities.
“Enter,” a woman’s voice said, and Salvatore did.
The woman in question sat behind a small round table, snug enough for two chairs on either end. The walls were shelved with odd trinkets and occult artifacts. Bottled elixirs with ominous warnings, little statues of mythical beasts and ancient scrolls filled the cramped space. She wore a colorful head scarf, which contrasted her jet-black hair and fair features. Her neck and fingers were adorned with gold and Salvatore pondered the debt of fools who succumbed to her chicanery.
“You’re Madame Florentina,” Salvatore said.
“And you’re the doubter known as Salvatore,” Madame Florentina said.
A smirk crept across Salvatore’s lips, and he said, “A parlor trick. Alessio told you I was coming, and likely described my appearance, too.”
“If you insist,” Madame Florentina said, motioning for the man to sit, which he did. On the table a crystal ball sat atop an ornate base, and next to it a folded white cloth hung over a tarnished brass bowl.
“Alessio tells me you can influence the outcome of events, to direct them in my favor,” Salvatore said.
“Are you in need of these services?” Madame Florentina asked.
“That depends. Can you orchestrate the death of someone, without suspicion or consequence?”
The woman leaned forward in her chair, squinted her eyes and inspected Salvatore’s face, then leaned back, huffed in disbelief and said, “I don’t think you understand the cost of such a request.”
“Right down to it, a businesswoman through and through. What’s your price, witch?” Salvatore asked.
“It would be cheaper if you simply expressed your contempt for this individual. It could be therapeutic, and I’m a good listener,” Madame Florentina said.
“My brother, Carlo, a thief and a swindler, stole the family business and our childhood home. He tricked the only woman I ever loved into marriage and left me heartbroken and out of a job. How the imbecile managed, I could never understand. No matter, I haven’t spoken to him since then as a result. There, I’ve told you, but I can’t say any weight has been lifted. Can you do this thing for me or not?” Salvatore asked.
The woman detected dishonesty, colorful lies painted over black and white truths. A suffocating silence grew between the two and filled the remaining space, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Salvatore’s frustration bubbled over, and he banged the table with his fist, rattling the bowl and nearly knocking the crystal ball off its base. He shouted, “Tell me now, and stop wasting my time!”
She was not fazed by his outburst and said, “I can.”
“Excellent. What’s your price?” Salvatore asked.
Madame Florentina moved the crystal ball aside and placed the brass bowl near the center. She removed the white cloth to reveal an ornate ceremonial dagger, pulling it out and setting it in plain view. Its hilt was encrusted with jewels, the Damascus steel blade starting to rust, but recently sharpened. She reached over to a string hanging down from the ceiling and pulled it twice, jingling a bell attached somewhere outside. After a brief moment, the door opened and in stepped a little person, about half Salvatore’s height. He dressed respectably in a black waistcoat without a blazer, a black tie and black trousers.
“Dr. Tibbs, this gentleman would like to render payment. Will you be so kind as to assist with dressing the wound when he is finished?” Madame Florentina asked.
“Wait a minute! What is it exactly you’re after here?” Salvatore asked.
“I’m afraid Alessio didn’t provide the full details of his own arrangement. His request was small of course, an ear to guarantee a worthy and wealthy suitor for his daughter. I felt sorry for the poor soul. Such a kind heart,” Madame Florentina said.
“I’ll not cut off my ear!” Salvatore said, standing upright and flinging the chair backward. Dr. Tibbs caught it, but did not appear flustered as a man who had involved himself in the exchange of body parts as currency for longer than he cared to admit.
“Oh, no, not your ear, not for what you’re asking. For the death of your brother, I’ll require one of your hands,” Madame Florentina said.
Dr. Tibbs sat the chair upright and directed Salvatore to sit, a welcome gesture since his knees started to buckle under the heavy request. A bead of sweat trickled down from Salvatore’s forehead and ran over his cheek, creating a channel for the manifest anxiety. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of separating the pair and placed his left wrist on the table. The doctor pulled a red handkerchief from his breast pocket and tied a tourniquet around Salvatore’s forearm, wasting no time with formalities.
“While Dr. Tibbs will work to guarantee your survival, the sacrifice must be of your own doing,” Madame Florentina said.
Salvatore took the knife and studied it, an instrument with the power to punish his brother, but deep in his soul the guilt of his own wrongdoings kept him from continuing with the ritual. He dropped the blade and removed the tourniquet, then slid back the chair as he stood.
“Carlo means nothing to me, always has — a useless brother with nothing to give or gain. He’s not worth my hand in payment. I’ll find another way to ruin him,” Salvatore said.
“Revenge is an expensive proposition. I’m uncertain you’re willing to pay the true price,” Madame Florentina said.
“Your talk is cheap,” Salvatore said.
“Says the man with nothing of value to offer. Stop wasting my time and leave this place.”
Dr. Tibbs pushed the chair in and motioned to the door, dismissing Salvatore with an emotionless stare. Salvatore, previously confident of his plans, left dejected and embarrassed by his cowardice. Soon after, the doctor began to secure the knife and bowl in a small cupboard but stopped upon hearing another knock at the door.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Tibbs, our previous engagement is finished. The person who seeks our services now is in good standing,” Madame Florentina said.
Dr. Tibbs opened the door and ushered in a man who wore a black fedora, with the front rim draping his face in shadows. An eye patch covered an empty socket, and a poorly constructed prosthetic nose protected the nasal cavity, where shallow wheezes exclaimed a life of brokenness. A fresh bandage over one ear, or the remnants of it, kept his movements subtle to reduce the pain.
“It was as you suspected,” Madame Florentina said.
“He will never stop,” Carlo said.
“It’s a shame to witness, the corruption of a blood bond.”
“I tried to make peace with Salvatore. His actions required drastic measures, but the more he lost, the more desperate he became. Instead of seeking my counsel or reconciliation, he...”
“You will be requiring Dr. Tibbs expertise, I presume.”
“Salvatore tormented me as a youth, wished me the greatest of harm, his youngest and only brother. It’s time to end this madness. It will cost me something once again, but it will finally cost him everything.”
“There will be no need to speak with the dead,” Madame Florentina said.
“My tongue then. I will visit his grave in silence,” Carlo said.
Dr. Tibbs pulled a towel and a few instruments from the shelf and placed them on the table, finally arranging a few vials containing coagulating agents. Carlo took his place, performing the deed, all while dreaming of a brother’s love, imaginary, impalpable and soon to be no longer possible.
Dear Reader: Happy New Year! I’m thrilled to finally send out a short story after a few months, albeit with a little darker tone than usual. Is it obvious this was started back in October around Halloween?!? I don’t have any big plans for 2025, other than to continue sending you quality science fiction and fantasy. Thanks for your support.
Nice one!
Twist!