Jian Carlo hurried deeper into Serafina’s apartment, desperate to escape the scent of her musk and the heat of her flesh. He had to take back control and find a vantage point from which to defend, or if necessary, to attack.
He tossed an envelope onto her dining table. “Here. Get it right, this time.” It was a bold move, but he had to exert a semblance of authority while he still had the chance.
Serafina raised her brows and approached with predatory grace. Instead of touching him, she moved the mystic paraphernalia from a chair and laid it on the floor next to a giant crystal. She seated herself at the head of the table and indicated for him to sit.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought.” When he remained standing, she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
She opened the envelope, poured the contents onto a square of white fabric, and separated the colored flakes with her fingernail.
“Paint? From Michael Cross?”
Jian Carlo nodded. “I took it from the painting he gave to Adriana. You said he wouldn’t come back.”
“No. I said she would not think of him unless he came back.”
“Whatever. Just tell me if this will work.”
“It depends on what you want to accomplish.”
He thought of the photos Roga had taken of the smug American, dining alone in the hotel restaurant, no doubt after a day spent fucking Jian Carlo’s wife. Why else would Adriana have resisted him?
“I want what belongs to me, on my arm, in my bed, and I want her to like it.”
Serafina laughed. “Of course you do.”
Jian Carlo turned away before she saw his indignation and belittled that as well. Humiliation made him angry, and anger made him careless. He couldn’t afford to lose control in front of her.
He walked away, giving her space to work and time for himself to cool down. He perused the religious artifacts that crowded each surface and every wall.
Her glass cabinet contained multiple representations of Exú. Some were fierce, others dashing or comical. Jian Carlo had seen one of these versions on that fateful night in Serafina’s forest—powerfully-built, glistening black skin, feet spread wide ready for battle, and his blood-red loincloth blowing in the breeze. This was how Exú had looked before taking Serafina in the dirt and making her scream in the way Jian Carlo had always wished he could.
He turned away. He did not need another reminder of how insignificant he was. Serafina could do that all by herself. Besides, it was time to see what she had done with the paint.
He returned to the table where she had lit a candle and was picking up the corners of what appeared to be a handkerchief. She molded it into a pouch and held it over the flame, high enough to heat the contents without catching fire to the material. Paint melted and turned the white cloth into a muddied shade of violet.
“Will that make her mine again?”
She shook her head. “Without your essence there’s nothing strong enough to bind her to you, not while the American is here in Rio.” She gave him a lascivious smile. “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?”
Jian Carlo’s groin tensed with desire. “No.”
She shrugged, as though his rejection were of no consequence. “Then what do you want?”
He thought more carefully, this time, before answering. “I want him to leave, for good.”
She clicked her tongue, regretfully. “Americans are unpredictable.”
“Why are you giving me such a hard time? I want him dead, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear—me speak the words? Well, consider them spoken.”
Serafina chuckled, low and rumbling. “Such passion. Just like the old times, eh Jian Carlo? Before you became such a fine gentleman? It’s good to remember your roots. It keeps you humble.”
“What would you know about humility?”
She grabbed his cock through his trousers and squeezed until he screeched in pain.
“Okay, okay.” He pried off her hand, cursed and moaned until the throbbing subsided.
“Disrespect me again, and it won’t be my hand that teaches you manners.”
He nodded and shifted his balls to a more comfortable position in his pants. This pain was nothing compared to the damage she could cause with her magic. He remembered a man back in Simões Filho whose face had fallen off in chunks, and that was just physical. She could ruin everything Jian Carlo had built, drive him back to the slums, revert him to a life of poverty and crime.
“Forgive me, Quimbandeira. My anger with this American has clouded my judgment.”
Serafina grinned. “I’ll think about it.” She folded the stained cloth and slid it into the envelope. “How soon do you want this done?”
Jian Carlo placed a stack of hundred-real banknotes on the table. “Before the end of Carnaval.”
“Two days is not much time.”
She raised a warning brow.
“I meant, will it be possible?”
She flipped through the stack of bills. “Anything is possible with enough money and blood.”