With a serious nod, Giuseppe stood up, feigning the unsteady stumble of a drunken man, and allowed Sofia to lead him toward the darkness of the private quarters.
Once inside the tent, the atmosphere shifted. The cheers of the plaza faded into a muffled, distant hum as Sofia moved with a strange, frantic grace to light a single candle on the bedside table. Giuseppe sat on the edge of the cot, watching her every movement through half-closed eyes. He noticed her fingers trembling as she adjusted the wick—a wick that began to sputter with a sickly, blue-tinted flame.
As the sweet, heavy scent of datura slowly filled the cramped space, Giuseppe felt the familiar pull of that false, suffocating sleep creeping into his limbs. Sofia reached into her bodice—not for a token of affection, but for a thin, silver-handled dagger and a coil of silk. She waited for his head to fall forward, for General Giuseppe to finally become a corpse.
But outside, the silence was already breaking.
