Menina VenenoSeptember 1983. Realengo, North Zone of Rio.
Zé was driving the faded blue '78 Chevette, 1.6 engine coughing at every pothole in the street. The .38 revolver sat cold and heavy in the glove compartment, ready to come out if needed. The radio crackled Gal Costa low, but the outside noise swallowed it all: screams, breaking glass, people running desperate every which way.The raid on the Guanabara supermarket was in full swing. Shelves toppled, rice flying through the air, spilled oil making the floor slick. Some cried clutching sugar packets, others laughed nervously while stuffing bags. Zé pulled the car onto the sidewalk, killed the engine, and watched. That's when he spotted the skinny kid hauling an old tube TV, still in its original box, balanced on his shoulder like a trophy.Zé eased the door open, grabbed the .38 from the glove box, and walked over.
"Hey, that's mine now," he said low, voice steady.
The guy didn't argue. Dropped the box on the ground and vanished into the crowd. Zé grabbed the TV, tossed it in the back seat, and headed into the wrecked supermarket.The smell inside was hot oil, cigarettes, and fear. He stepped on shards of glass and dented cans. In the frozen meats aisle, he heard a short, sharp scream—a woman's.
She was cornered against the deli counter. A knockout, in an expensive silk dress that didn't fit the chaos, jewelry gleaming on her neck and wrists. Four thugs around her: sweaty tank tops, iron bars, screwdriver, kitchen knife in hand. They were already groping her tits, yanking at her earrings, laughing low.Zé thought it was chickenshit. Pulled the .38, raised his arm.
The first one lunging at her took a bullet to the head. Dropped face-first into the counter, blood spraying the egg carton. The other three rushed him. Zé fired three more times—fast, no real aim. Two hit the slick floor groaning. The last one bolted, slipped in the oil, and disappeared down the booze aisle.Zé went to the woman, grabbed her arm hard but not hurting.
"Come with me."
He hoisted her over his shoulder—she was light, smelled of pricey perfume mixed with sweat—and carried her out. The back seat of the Chevette already had the TV box, stacks of oil, rice, a frozen ham he'd yanked from some lady earlier. Trunk stuffed with more loot grabbed from others in the mayhem.He fired up the car, peeled out, tires screeching over scattered toilet paper. The woman straightened in the passenger seat, breathing deep, fixing her torn dress.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, voice low but firm.
"Shut your mouth. I'm in charge now."She went quiet for a few seconds, then said:
"My husband's Seu Getúlio. Rich businessman, big in Rio politics. Connections in the Palace, the Assembly, the cops. If he finds out you hurt me..."Zé let out a dry laugh, glancing sideways.
"If you're that rich, then there's money to be made off you. I'm kidnapping you now."She didn't flinch. Eyed the revolver in his lap.
"He'll pay. But it won't be easy."Zé slowed, turned into a dark, narrow alley full of trash and barking dogs. Drove to the end, to a shack of mismatched bricks and wood, crooked fibrocement roof. Parked, killed the engine.Inside, Tonho was waiting. Zé's right-hand man, a big sweaty brute, tank top tied around his head, smoking a joint rolled in corn husk. Lounging in a plastic chair, slicing the air with sweet smoke.Zé shoved the door open, tossed the woman inside.
"Watch her, Tonho. She's rich. Wife of some big shot. Gonna make us money."Tonho barked a hoarse laugh, stubbed the joint on the wall.
"Got it, boss. If she squeals, I'll shut her up."Zé eyed the woman, who leaned against the wall, jewelry still glinting in the dim light.
"Keep her while I write the note for her husband. Newspaper cutouts, ransom demand. I'll deliver it. You stay here with her."He left, slammed the door. Hopped in the Chevette, engine sputtered twice, caught. As he vanished down the alley, Tonho stared at the prize.
"Sit down."Zé drove the Chevette slow along the waterfront, dodging main avenues. The sun was dipping, painting the sea dirty orange, but the heat still clung to the skin. He'd made the note with care: letters cut from old papers, pasted crooked on crumpled sheet. "I HAVE YOUR WIFE. 500K CRUZEIROS IN 48 HOURS. NO COPS. LEAVE IT IN THE WATER TANK AT PENHA, SUCH STREET, NO. SUCH. DON'T FUCK AROUND." No signature, just a headline screaming "CRISIS."He reached Leblon near late afternoon. Seu Getúlio's mansion was otherworldly: tall black iron gate, ivy-covered wall, garden visible from afar with aligned palms and a fountain nobody bothered to run. Zé parked a ways back on the same street, killed the engine, waited for dusk. Didn't want eyes on him.When the street hushed, he got out. Note folded in his sweaty shirt pocket. Walked fast, head down, reached the double gate—outer iron, inner dark wood. Between them, a narrow slot like a giant mailbox. Zé shoved the note in, wedged tight so it wouldn't fall. Then hit the bell. Short, sharp ring. Echoed inside like the house breathed.Ran back to the Chevette, locked in, watched the rearview. Heart pounding, hand on the .38 in his lap, ready if anyone chased.Took two minutes. The mansion's front door creaked open slow. A man stepped out. Tall, too skinny, impeccable black suit. Butler, for sure. But off. His skin was gray, like wet cement, as if he'd never seen sun. Movements slow, mechanical, no life. Didn't glance around, no hesitation. Straight to the gate, snatched the note with long bony fingers, folded it neat, and went back in. Door clicked shut soft.Zé felt a chill crawl up his spine, the kind that doesn't explain. Not cop fear, not thug fear. Something else. Air heavier, like eyes on him unseen. The butler had no face—no curiosity, no anger, just void.He cranked the engine. Chevette choked once, caught. Drove slow, no burnout, no attention. Turned the first corner, heart still racing, headed back to Penha along the shore. In the mirror, the mansion faded, but the neck chill stayed.Back at the shack, Tonho was on another joint, the woman sitting quiet in the corner, staring at the floor. Zé entered, locked up, breathed deep.
"Delivered," he rasped.Tonho grinned crooked.
"Yeah? See the big shot?""Nah. Just a weird butler. Gray skin, zombie face."Tonho laughed.
"You're trippin', boss. Rich folks' butlers use rice powder."Zé didn't answer. Sat in the wobbly chair, .38 on the table. Eyed the woman. She lifted her gaze slow, a tiny smile at her mouth's edge.
"He got it," she said low. "Now we wait."Zé felt that chill again. But this time, it came from inside the shack.While Zé drove to Leblon with the cutout note in his pocket, the Penha shack got too quiet. Just distant neighbor radio blasting Tim Maia and the hum of an old fan barely stirring the hot air.Tonho stood by the door, arms crossed, trying to look tough. Clara sat on the thin mattress on the floor, back to the brick wall, torn dress covering just enough. But her eyes... those eyes wouldn't stay still. She shot glances at Tonho—slow, lingering, sizing up a man before deciding to devour him.At first, Tonho looked away. Scratched his neck, took deep drags on the joint, blew smoke at the ceiling. Felt his face heat. "Fuck, this bitch is trouble," he thought. But the looks kept coming. A faint smile on her lips, like she knew exactly what brewed inside him.After what felt forever, Tonho broke the silence.
"Want somethin', madame?" he rasped, trying sarcasm.Clara raised her gaze slow, like she'd waited for it.
"Gimme a hit of that joint," she said, voice low, almost a purr.Tonho laughed loud, nervous echo in the tiny shack.
"You can't handle this, madame. Corn husk and cheap tobacco."He relit the tip, puffed twice to flare it, held it out, betting on her flop. Pictured her coughing, eyes watering, begging water—then he'd laugh, show who ruled.But Clara took it with two delicate fingers, brought it to her lips, inhaled slow. The ember glowed bright. She held the smoke deep in her lungs for long seconds, then rolled the joint on her tongue side to side, savoring like fine cigar. Blew it out waterfall-perfect—two thick streams from mouth to nostrils, then cascading over Tonho's face.Tonho froze. Mouth agape. Heart in his throat, ice rising in his gut like his first girl at fifteen behind the school. His whole body tingled.Clara handed it back, fingers brushing his a beat too long.
"Been a while since I had a real man," she said, eyes locked. Voice low whisper. "Those big shots... just order. But you... you look like you know what you're doing."Tonho swallowed hard. Joint shaking in his hand. Wanted smart words, but they vanished. Heat rising in his chest, blood rushing too fast. Shack felt smaller, air thicker. He stepped forward without thinking.Clara smiled—slow, pleased.
She was already weaving her macabre plan. A scheme neither Tonho nor Zé knew they were trapped in. The seduction was just the start. The joint, the touch, the gaze... threads of a web spun with spider patience. And the venom already coursed his veins, unfelt.Zé rolled out again and got back to the shack late night. Chevette pulled into the alley with a low rumble, engine still hot. He stepped out slow, day's weight on his back: the spine chill from the gray butler, empty Leblon street, mansion silence that swallowed sound. Entered, locked the rusty padlock.Tonho was gone.
"Where's Tonho?" Zé rasped, scanning.Clara sat on the same mattress, legs crossed, torn dress gaping more at the chest—not by accident. Dead joint in the sardine can ashtray. She raised her gaze slow, like timed perfect.
"He left. Said he needed more smoke from the corner store. Be back soon."Zé frowned. Tonho never bailed without proper word, especially leaving the "prisoner" alone. But exhaustion hit hard, shack too hot for bullshit. He tossed the .38 on the table, slumped in the wobbly chair, rubbed his face.Clara moved. Stood slow, glided close—steps light, near silent on cracked cement. Stopped inches away. Her scent invaded: pricey perfume mixed earthy, unnamed herbs, light night sweat.
"You're tense," she whispered. "The butler spook you?"Zé chuckled short, awkward.
"Ain't fear. Just... somethin' wrong with that house."She closed in. Hand on his shoulder—light but firm. Fingers cool despite the heat. Zé shivered up his neck but didn't pull away.
"You saved me today," she went on, leaning forward. Dress neckline parted more. "Coulda let those guys tear me apart. But you came. Real men do that."Zé swallowed. Looked at her. Her eyes dark, bottomless wells. Heart raced, same gut ice Tonho must've felt earlier. Told himself it was just lust, body reacting post-adrenaline. But something deeper pulled.Clara knelt slow, face inches from his.
"Relax, Zé. Ransom's coming. Seu Getúlio pays. And when he does... we vanish together. You, me... far from this shit."Her hand slid up his arm, to his neck. Thumb grazing skin slow. Zé closed his eyes a beat. Touch electric, like current. He opened his mouth for "stop," "back off," anything—but words failed.She leaned closer, lips nearly brushing.
"Kiss me," she whispered. "Show you're more man than Tonho."Zé paused. Tonho's name stabbed—jealousy, suspicion. But body decided. He yanked her waist, kissed hard, almost angry. Her hands to his back, nails scratching light. The kiss hot, urgent, but... cold. Like she timed every second.Outside, alley silent. Tonho still gone. Inside the shack, Zé tumbled right where she wanted.Clara smiled against his mouth. A smile he missed. The plan rolled on. Next step locked.Tonho returned to the shack forty minutes later, plastic bag rattling. Inside: two packs Hollywoods, six cold Brahma cans (still chilly from the corner bar freezer), and tucked in his briefs, a small foil-wrapped coke packet and a maconha nugget. He walked in grinning, like nothing.Zé stood arms crossed against the wall, eyeing him top to bottom.
"Where the fuck were you?" Zé growled low, loaded.Tonho shrugged, dropped the bag on the table.
"Quick run, bro. Grabbed stuff to ride out the night. Bitch was quiet, no escape. Where's she goin' in this mess? Looting still raging in Madureira, cops beating anything that moves. Safer here than the street."Zé stepped up. Face red rage.
"I said don't take eyes off her. You left her alone?"Tonho spread hands, calming.
"Five minutes, Zé. Five! Tied her wrists with clothesline, wasn't flying off."Zé closed in, finger in face.
"Don't care. Eyes on this woman. I'm prepping the ransom pickup—water tank, drop spot, escape. She bolts or shit hits fan 'cause of you, I break you, Tonho. Got it?"Tonho dropped gaze, mumbled "alright, bro" and sat. Zé snatched the .38, tucked in waistband, opened door, left. Chevette roared outside, faded down alley.Shack silent again. Fan hum and distant sirens.Clara, quiet whole time against wall, raised gaze slow. Eyes darker in bare bulb light. Spoke soft, like old pals.
"Why let him talk to you like that?"Tonho whipped around.
"Shut it, madame. Stay out."She smiled faint, no rush.
"He treats you like a dog. You carry weight, risk skin, he shits on you. I see your strength. Real strength. Don't gotta take it."Tonho lit another joint, deep drag, smoke to ceiling. Tried ignoring. But she pressed, voice lower.
"C'mere. Untie me a bit... just to shift. Wrists hurt."He hesitated. Eyed door like Zé might burst in. Then her—torn dress, sweat-glossed skin, eyes pulling him in. Stood, approached, untied the clothesline knot slow. Fingers shook slight.Clara rubbed wrists, thanked with light arm touch.
"Thanks. You're different from him. More man."Tonho felt that gut ice again. Fought it. Turned back, grabbed beer can, popped with teeth. Gulped half.
"No games, woman. I know your play."But she was close. Hand on shoulder, sliding down back.
"Then kick me out. Send me away now."He didn't. Turned. Eyes inches. She drew him slow, lips grazing. Tonho held seconds—eyes shut, deep breath—but body betrayed. Kissed hard, hands on waist, then lower. She matched fire, nails raking under his shirt back.They hit the thin mattress. Beer spilled foaming. Joint died in can. Shack filled heavy breaths, muffled moans, wood creaking. Tonho lost himself in her—scent, touch, feeling this was what he always craved, unknown.Clara, mid-thrust, smiled into his neck. Cold, pleased. Not just fucking. Sealing. Binding deeper in web. Each touch new thread. Each gasp tight knot.After, Tonho lay panting, ceiling-staring. Clara curled beside, head on shoulder.
"Now you're mine," she whispered, so low barely heard. "And Zé... he'll learn soon."Tonho silent. Eyes closed. Heart racing. Gut ice bigger. But he thought pleasure, not fear.Outside, Chevette not back. Her plan rolled silent, inevitable.Zé hit the shack near midnight, Chevette packed roof-high. Trunk: thick iron chains from abandoned junkyard, old .30-30 carbine bought with loot cash (rusted but working), stolen Honda CG 125 from some playboy, roped down. Plan simple solid: Tonho on bike for cover. Zé drives Chevette with chained Clara passenger, stops near Penha tank, Tonho climbs top with carbine, Zé grabs cash envelope. Goes south, chain her in trunk, bike escape B.Parked alley, killed engine, opened shack door. What he saw boiled his blood.Clara untied. In wobbly chair, legs crossed, sipping cold Brahma one hand, Tonho's joint other. Torn dress like loungewear. Tonho face-down snoring on mattress, pants half-down, post-bender crash.Zé froze doorframe seconds, .38 heavy in waist. Then exploded.Stormed in kicking door, straight to Tonho, boot-stomps on leg.
"Wake up, you fuck! Wake!"Tonho woke groaning, rolled, tried standing.
"What the fuck, Zé? Crazy?""Crazy's you! Let her loose again? Drinking? Your joint? You shitting me?"Tonho rose rubbing leg. Glanced Clara—calm smoking—back to Zé.
"I'm done you riding me, Zé. Enough. I handle her my way. She ain't running. And you... nuts on this ransom. Hubby pays jack. Sends killers."Zé stepped close, finger jab.
"Defending her? Her side now?"Tonho deep breath, red eyes rage.
"Won't let you give her back. She deserves better. Better than you. I'm keeping her."Fight flashed. Zé shoved Tonho to wall. Tonho punched jaw. Rolled on cement floor, fists, elbows, grunts. Clara stood wall-leaned, watching. Side-smile like theater.Mid-scrap, Tonho topped Zé, hands throat-squeezing.
"You're fucked, Zé! I handle her now!"Zé air gone, sight blurring. Stretched, grabbed fallen kitchen knife. Buried in Tonho's ribs. Once, twice, thrice. Tonho screamed, grip slack. Zé shoved corpse aside, stabbed on—chest, gut, blood hot on floor.Tonho flatback gasping, hands plugging holes. Blood bubbling mouth.Zé rose shaking, knife dripping. Eyed dying friend. Then Clara.She glided close, hugged from back, arms waist, chin shoulder.
"You saved me again," whispered ear. "Said he'd kill you, rape me, keep me for him. You protected me, Zé."Zé dropped knife. Body eased in her hold. Turned, kissed fierce, bloody hands on her face. Hit mattress, fucked right there amid beer stink, smoke, blood. Moans mixed Tonho's weak gurgles, eyes open watching. Watching friend he killed for her. Watching her smile mid-moan.Tonho died: eyes locked on them, hands limp, blood pooling dark to mattress.After, Clara beside Zé, head on chest.
"Now just us," soft. "Ransom still comes. Then... we vanish."Zé eyes shut, drained, relieved. Missed her smile widening slow. Missed spine chill rising stronger, final.Zé was losing it. Just like Tonho.
Days after partner's death turned paranoid hell, cold sweat. Paced shack like lost soul, muttering, staring dark corner where Tonho's body lay (Clara didn't bother covering). Sometimes swore he heard friend moan low, whisper "you killed brother for a whore." .38 glued to trembling hand, cylinder seeming to spin solo.Clara stayed close, always calm. Cracked beers, lit joints, stroked back as he rambled unpaid ransom. One night, city sirens faint from distant looting, she straddled lap, voice sweet venom:
"My husband... beat me, Zé. Hard. That's why I fled to chaos. Why cornered in store. He ain't man, monster. Ransom comes, he takes me back, kills slow."Zé crushed her to chest, heart offbeat.
"I keep bandit word. He pays, you go free. Don't... I kill him. I protect you."She smiled to his skin, eyes untouched.
"You're good, Zé. Best I ever had."But no envelope in tank. Deadline passed. Zé obsessed, night drives in Chevette circling Leblon, spying mansion afar. Gray butler at window sometimes, statue-still, staring empty street.Then end night came.
Clara sat bed nude, bulb lighting face altar-candle. Eyed Zé with bottomless wells.
"Hubby never existed, Zé."He froze.
"What?""Seu Getúlio's fake. Mansion? Snuck in once, bent butler with simple mark. He's empty, like you'll be. Ain't no wife. I'm witch. Heavy quimbanda, serving Exu of Souls, Tatá Caveira, collecting souls for demons below."Low laugh echoed multi-voice.
"Do it for fun. Save men in chaos, make 'em kill each other, seduce, break, claim. Tonho first this round. You... second. Best."Zé reached for .38. Body failed. Heavy, invisible ropes pulling. Dropped knees.
"No... you can't..."Clara rose, to door. Opened slow. Outside: sirens. Many. Blue-red flashes alley. Cops. Someone snitched: "armed nut in shack, killed man, woman hostage."Turned, big smile.
"I called 'em. Mark in Tonho blood on floor, whisper to Exu Tranca-Ruas. They come get you. You'll shoot. Die in gunfight. Fresh soul for my lord."Zé felt revolver in hand—not his will. Stumbled out door open, lights blinding. Yelled:
"Get out! Get out!"Cops barked: "Drop weapon! Hands up!"Zé raised .38. First shot cop car. Then PM chest. Return fire. Fell alley ground, blood running, sight fading. Saw Clara shack door, watching, smiling.But she didn't stand idle.
As cops swarmed Zé's body, she stepped slow, soft crying, hugging self like fear-shaking. Torn dress, gleaming jewels, makeup tear-smeared fake.Op commander—tall delegate, gray mustache, bulletproof vest—rushed.
"Ma'am, you okay? He hurt you?"Clara flung into arms, sobbing.
"He kidnapped me... saved me in riot, then snapped... killed friend in front of me... said protect, but keep me caged... please, get me out..."Delegate hugged, hand back, voice firm soft.
"Easy, ma'am. All good now. We got you."She lifted face, red eyes (or more), locked his. Gaze one second too long.
"Thanks... real man."Delegate shivered. Thought just night chill.Days later, Rio, beauty in fine dress strolled Leblon boardwalk.
Radio played Ritchie's Menina Veneno.
Entered mansion. Gray butler opened door. She smiled.
"Two more souls delivered. He'll like."Cycle spun on. For fun.End