I grin, looking her over.
“You and I, Miz Moretti,” I go on, staring into Francesca’s eyes, and I feel them drinking me in, “have a lot in common, and I trust that you’ll find our…business relationship”—I pause, smile faintly—“to be, shall I say, more than just…lucrative.”
“Get him out of here,” I hear Miz Ghita bark from behind, and then four men in suits rush quickly into the room, guns raised at me.
Francesca Moretti, formerly known as Bianca, raises her left hand in front of her and without saying a word the men stop cold in their tracks, shrinking backward a few steps with their tails between their legs. Emilio doesn’t move or speak; he continues to look at the floor—is that fear crippling Francesca’s brother? Yeah, that’s definitely fear, unbecoming of someone like Emilio. In fact, he’s not the only person in the room who reeks of it: Miz Ghita stands with her chin held high, but her aged hands are shaking inconspicuously down at her sides; the nameless decoy sits quietly on the loveseat, body hunched over, hands tucked between her knees—not the same strong woman who walked in here earlier; the servant girl, standing naked in the center of the room the entire time seemingly without breathing, her shoulders rise and fall more rapidly as though she’s trying to quell an anxiety attack; and the fake Francesca—well, she looks like she’s about to piss herself.
I wasn’t entirely sure before, but now, judging by most of the faces in the room, it is without a doubt that every single one of them are terrified of Francesca Moretti: the bitter mother, the devoted brother—though to a lesser degree for some reason; the decoys who I believe are Francesca’s and Emilio’s sisters or cousins. None of them are innocent by any means, they’re just as guilty of buying and selling and a variety of cruel punishments they dish out to the slaves, but none of them are as vicious and murderous as I believe Francesca Moretti to be.
Izabel
Is it just me, or are these people afraid to breathe? Wow…OK, I didn’t expect this. At all. I thought for sure the lookalike sitting on the loveseat was the real Francesca. Earlier at the showing, I was convinced it was Valentina. But I never would’ve imagined it was her. I want to look over at Nora just to see if there’s anything on her face, but…even I’m a little afraid to move, or draw attention to myself. I knew going into this that Francesca Moretti was an evil bitch, but there’s more to this than I imagined, there’s so much more to her—she sets my teeth on edge and she hasn’t even spoken yet.
I wonder what Nora’s thinking.
Nora
Now we’re getting somewhere! Oh God, I was starting to go out of my mind playing this pathetic obedient doormat. But now things are looking up. And it’s about damn time Niklas called her out. I’m just glad he picked the right woman. I was beginning to wonder.
Now I only wonder if Niklas and Izabel know what they’ve gotten themselves into. That woman may look frail in that pretty little slave dress; her unpainted features may appear gentle and flawless and kind even, but she’s anything but kind—a demon lives underneath that flesh. I’ve seen people like her, faced and killed people like her, and they excite me; they make my job that much more interesting, more dangerous, and I live for these types of jobs. Well…in a different role, of course.
Niklas
Francesca slowly lowers her arm back at her side. Quietly she takes a few steps forward—Emilio, the fake Francesca and Miz Ghita move backward to clear her way, and undoubtedly to stay out of arm’s reach. The four men with guns bow low at the waist and hold the position. I stay right where I’m at, bold and undaunted in her authoritarian presence. Neither Augustin nor Fleischer would lower himself to that shit; I don’t care if she’s a murderous nutcase—but I have to keep playing the Augustin role, pretending she and I are one in the same: two sadistic peas in a pod.
Francesca looks right at me; she never blinks; she’s so fucking calm and calculated that I find myself stumbling through my thoughts, but I easily retain confidence and power on my face.
“You intrigue me, Mr. Augustin.” Her voice is red wine laced with arsenic; her dark eyes are endless pools of malevolence and beauty—you want to look away, but you can’t.
“Call me Niklas,” I say smoothly; I reach out and take her hand, bending to kiss the top of it.
“It would please me, Niklas, to have a private meeting with you.” She turns only her head to look at the fake Francesca and she says, “Give me your dress, Bianca.”
“Yes, Sister,” the one whose name is actually Bianca says.
Bianca scurries over to Francesca quickly, strips off her cream-white lacy dress and rests it over her forearm until Francesca is ready to take it from her. She waits, naked, with only a string of pearls around her neck, dipping between her tits.
Francesca hasn’t for a second taken her eyes off me.
She clasps her fingers around the hem of her servant’s dress and lifts the fabric over her head, dropping it on the floor afterward. Francesca is without a doubt, unlike any woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the power she possesses, I don’t know, but she’s goddamn beautiful. It’s just too bad she’s likely a homicidal waste of air who needs to be put down.
Niklas
After sliding the dress over her naked form, Francesca says, “I want everyone to leave except for Niklas and his girls.”
“But Francesca—” Miz Ghita tries to say, stepping up.
“I said leave.”
“Very well.” Miz Ghita turns on her heels.
As she and the nameless decoy make their way out behind the four gunmen, the real Bianca starts to follow with the servant girl behind her. Emilio steps in front of Bianca and speaks angrily to her in Italian. I may not be able to understand the language, but I don’t need to to gather they’re arguing about Bianca humiliating Emilio in her role. Then Bianca hits the floor—Emilio’s hand had shot out so fast I hardly saw it before it made contact with the side of her face. Sitting on the floor with her legs bent beneath her, Bianca holds a hand over her cheek; there’s murder in her eyes.
Bianca scrambles to get to her feet, her tits bouncing all over the place, and she rushes Emilio from behind. He turns at the last moment and stops her cold, his hand wrapped about her throat.
“Dear Brother,” Francesca calls out, and Emilio turns around to face her. “Prepare my room.”
Emilio shoves Bianca backward, releasing her.
Bianca leaves shortly afterward, naked and wearing only a pearl necklace and a pair of high heels. The sound of the doors closing behind her echoes throughout the spacious room.
“Before we go any further,” Francesca says; her cold eyes sweep over Izabel, “there is a bit of a problem that will be remedied, or there will be no meeting.”
“What problem?” I ask.
Francesca slithers over to the desk and opens one of the drawers. No sound is heard as she moves her hand through its contents and then retrieves a long silver knife. She moves toward Izabel.
Oh shit…
I look between Francesca and Izabel, having no idea of Francesca’s intentions, but I know they’re dark and I know they have everything to do with Izabel and it makes me fucking nervous. Instinctively I move—calmly, not in a rush—toward them and take Izabel by the arm, pulling her from the chair.
Izzy stands immediately even without my help; she keeps her hands linked together down in front of her. I expect to be able to feel her heart hammering through the vein in her arm, but I don’t.
Francesca stands in front of Izabel.
“Look at me, girl,” she commands.
Izabel does. “But Madam, I’m not a slave,” she says in a soft, timid voice.
Francesca grabs Izabel’s chin in her free hand and turns her head left and right, at an angle, side to side, up and down, inspecting her—and no doubt testing her, testing me.
“I can see why she’s your favorite,” Francesca says, looking at me briefly. “She is very beautiful, despite the scar on her stomach.” She glances in Nora’s direction, but ne
ver actually looks at her. “The blond is also stunning, but the scars and the missing finger are too much.”
I guess that means she doesn’t feel inadequate next to Nora because of Nora’s many ‘imperfections’—but what does that mean for Izzy? Francesca already knows I have a soft spot for ‘Naomi’, but I think she wants to know just how soft; how far I’m willing to let her go. If too far, Izzy could be in trouble, but if not far enough I’ll look weak, pussy whipped like Dorian Flynn, and that’s the same as licking the shit from Francesca’s boots, and she’ll lose any respect for me she might have.
“Niklas,” Izabel says, her face still wrenched in Francesca’s hand, “I’m afraid.”
You’re also a good liar.
A flash of silver sends panic through me as Francesca raises the knife.
“What are you doing?” I demand; my arm is suddenly between Francesca and Izabel. “I don’t care who you are; I won’t allow you to disfigure my property—that’s my privilege.”
Francesca smiles, and although it feels slippery and dangerous, I hold my fixed expression on her, and my arm in front of her, daring her to hurt Izabel. I start to reach for my gun until I remember I had to check it in at the door.
“Niklas…please,” Izabel cries softly.
“I will not break skin,” Francesca promises, still with that slippery smile. “It’s only temporary, I assure you.”
Reluctantly I lower my arm and rest it back at my side. I look at Izabel, softening my eyes on her, my way of telling Naomi that everything will be OK, and then look back at Francesca. I nod, giving her the go-ahead, and hoping like hell I don’t regret it. Francesca’s grinning eyes fall away from me and she grabs Izzy’s hair and starts cutting; the sharp shearing sound of metal on hair, hacking away chunks of Izabel’s auburn locks. In seconds the floor is covered in dark red hair, scattered in heaps around Izzy’s feet atop the Italian rug. I look up at her, taking in the sight of her botched haircut as unevenly as a five-year-old with a pair of scissors. At least it wasn’t cut too short near the scalp anywhere that Izzy would have to shave the rest off later. Strangely, Izabel looks relieved—better hair than flesh.
“Now go sit down,” Francesca tells her and moves back toward the desk.
With her head lowered in shame, Izabel maintains her scared act and walks back to the oversized chair.
“I have never heard of you…Niklas,” Francesca says, sashaying her hips as she walks toward Nora slowly, knife in hand. “And I must tell you, that even though your story checks out and I have found nothing on you to indicate you’re not who you claim to be, I am still not convinced.” She stops feet from Nora and turns to look back at me. “Surely you understand my…hesitations.”
“I understand more than you know.” I walk toward her. “And if you weren’t so…thorough, Miz Moretti—”
“Francesca.”
“Francesca,” I say with a slow nod. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing business with you at all.”
“Is that why you chose to come to me rather than”—she gestures her fingers outward in a dismissing fashion; her nose is wrinkled on one side with contempt—“that incompetent woman who does not know the first thing about this business?”
“Madam Carlotta?” I smile, to further hit a nerve.
“Tell me, Niklas,” she begins, perturbed, “why did you choose to come here? The truth, of course.” She glances at a naked and heavily scarred Nora briefly and then turns back to me. “The better question would be how you knew I was more than a Madam? I will pay you for the name or names of those who”—she drags the blunt edge of the blade across the top of her hand—“spoke without thinking.”
I edge my way closer, maintaining my composed performance so she doesn’t feel like I’m worried about Nora the way I was with Izabel. I’m not really—I know Nora can handle herself, though I hope it doesn’t come to that.
“No one told me anything.” I stop two feet to her left and slide my hands into my pants pockets casually. “At least nothing about your on-the-side business in the sex trade. I figured that out on my own.”
“And how did you do that, exactly?”
I smile, close-lipped. “Are we really here to talk about how resourceful I can be, or shouldn’t we get on with why I came?”
After a few silent seconds Francesca moves the rest of the way over to Nora, circling her in slow, small steps, knife still in her left hand.
“No, Mr. Augustin—”
“Niklas.”
“Niklas”—she smiles darkly—“I think I’ll have you tell me how you knew; like I said, I still do not trust you, and you will answer my questions.” Her eyes narrow. “Resourceful you certainly are, but also very observant. You knew who my mother was; you knew who I was—no one has ever done that, or cared to do it. Frankly, Niklas, I don’t know whether to admire your skill, or to be even more suspicious of it. The men who come here only ever have one thing on their minds and it rarely has anything to do with me. You’ve done well to put a red flag on your back. So tell me—how did you know?” She puts the blade to Nora’s throat casually as if she were about to spread butter on her toast, and she looks across the short space at me, waiting with an eerie patience.
Retaining my undaunted smile, I give in with an impassive sigh. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll tell you.” I turn my back to her, my way of showing her that I’m not at all concerned about what she might do to Nora, and then I make my way back over to Izabel. I sit down on the oversized chair and lean back comfortably; Izabel remains seated on the edge.
“First you should know why I’m so observant,” I begin. “Just like you, I don’t trust anybody—for all I know you could be undercover. Call me paranoid if you want, but I’ve been busted before, I’ve been in prison before, and I don’t plan on going back to that fucking place, so I make it a point to know who I’m dealing with. In fact, I’ve been this way for a long time, always looking over my shoulder—my own brother betrayed me, so surely you can understand why I’m more…perceptive than the rest of the buyers who come here. And I don’t like to be lied to. I knew Bianca wasn’t really you the second she hesitated to tell me what she liked most about her favorite girls.” I smirk. “You wouldn’t have hesitated, or looked at your mother for the answer; your brother wouldn’t have had to jump in and try to distract me.”
“Yes, Emilio is a devoted brother,” Francesca says with an exasperated sigh. “Overprotective of me to a fault, I admit. But he is a good brother. I trust him more than anyone in my family—I only trust him. But go on and tell me how you knew.”
She’s thrown me off my game a bit, but she’s oblivious to it. Emilio a devoted brother? Emilio overprotective of his superior sister to a fault? Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought. That’s unfortunate.
“It’s simple really,” I say, snapping back into the moment. “I didn’t know anything about the showings until I came here tonight. I’d always known you employed the most prized whores that money can buy. And I wanted one for myself. Not just for a night or a few days. I wanted one and I was confident you’d sell one to me.”
“I see.” Francesca takes the knife away from Nora’s throat and then leaves her standing there as she paces the floor, sliding the flat sides of the tip of the blade between her fingers absently. “Only I never sell my cyprians. They are, in a sense, free women and men. They work for me and are paid generously. I sell their services, not their freedom.”
“You don’t sell them,” I point out, “because they’re whores, and buyers aren’t looking for tainted whores, unless the buyer is like me. Tell me they’d still be free to live their lives if they were still worth selling.”
She smiles darkly right back at me, and it’s the only answer we both know she needs to give.
“Every man,” I go on, “has a preference—mine happens to be whores—and physical flaws, of course.” I look at Nora, indicating her. “Aya worked for an escort service before she became mine.” I glance at Izabel.
“Naomi here,” I say, reaching out to touch her butchered hair, combing my fingers through the back, “started selling herself at a young age; I was her last customer; I took her from the streets and then she was nobody’s whore but mine.” I pause and then add as an afterthought, “Of course she grew on me more than I expected or wanted.”
“You love that one.”
Stunned, my hand stops moving in Izabel’s hair; for a second I’m not sure what to say in response.
“No,” I finally answer, confused by my hesitation, and drop my hand from her hair. I look at Francesca. “I don’t love anyone. But I’m fond of her. Haven’t you ever been fond of someone—aside from your brother, I mean.” I grin. And I hope my attempt to take the spotlight off me works because this shit with Izabel is making me uncomfortable.
“No,” Francesca answers. “I’ve only ever been fond of my brother. I’ve only ever loved him.” She leaves it at that.
“So you’re what they call a hero,” Francesca says with a mock smile. “Rescuing whores from the streets, turning them into respectable whores?” She laughs lightly under her breath.
“Hardly.” I pat Izabel’s head and then rest my hand in my lap. “My girls didn’t want to be taken, they didn’t want to be controlled, or…punished when they disobeyed”—I lick the dryness from my lips—“I didn’t do it to rescue them, I did it because I liked it.”
Francesca glances at Nora. “And what of that one?”
“Aya,” I call out, “tell the Madam why you like being my whore.”
Nora doesn’t raise her eyes when she answers, “Aya’s master made her whole, Madam; her master protects her and provides for her; she is happy to be his whore.”
After a moment, Francesca says, “But why whores?” She moves toward us, setting the knife down on the arm of the sofa on her way. “And I thought you looked for flaws?”
The Black Wolf Page 15
