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It wasn’t Patarillo who was the bearer of bad news this time. It wasn’t even a case of answering a call meant for Bancoran—the lying bastard. No, this time Bancoran was foolish enough to try to slip one of his boys into his office at MI-6.
As if I don’t drop by from time to time.
Like right then, when I saw Ban kissing someone curled in his lap. Someone who most definitely wasn’t me.
Sometimes I wonder how stupid he thinks I am.
"You know, Bancoran...." Calm. Conversational.
The look on his face every time would be priceless, if my heart wasn’t breaking and my blood pressure skyrocketing. This time, too, he had that guilty shock plastered on his face, and his hair was nearly curling in fear. The frail-looking boy went tumbling from Ban’s lap as he jerked out of his chair.
“Maraich!” There was the outstretched arm, though it was difficult to tell whether he was reaching out in supplication or trying to ward me off. “This—This is the son of an old friend! I’m keeping him out of trouble—”
I lobbed a paperweight at his fat, ugly head. Unfortunately, he ducked in time. “I just bet you are! You cheat!”
“Maraich, you know you’re the only one I could ever love! I gave my heart into your keeping; no one else can reach it—”
When he gets poetic it’s a sure sign that he’s been playing behind my back.
“I’m going to rip out your eyes,” I hissed at him, “and then your head will be as safe as your heart.”
“Hey, wait—Maraich! Listen! Listen to me!”
There was a little whimper, and I watched the boy scuttle around the far side of the room and make for the open door and the crowd gathering there. Then I attacked.
Of course I wasn’t serious. If I was serious, one of us would get killed, and it’s entirely possible that it wouldn’t be me. He just needs a few scratches to remind him of who he’s dealing with.