The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(30)
She’s lying, but that’s OK.
I nod. “I am aware; but just the same, an outright purchase is what I need. I’m certain you can make an exception.”
She nods, not as if to agree that she can, but that she will consider it. It’s true—the cyprians owned by Francesca Moretti are not usually sold outright to buyers; only their services are on the market. But the Moretti family is also in the sex slave trade—I’ve heard the stories; back when I worked as a buyer on a mission for The Order. Masters. Sellers. Buyers. Living, breathing merchandise. But I’m not looking for a girl on the market—I’m looking for a cyprian who would not be considered marketable anymore. That is our mission: find Olivia Bram, purchase her and send her back to the United States, and then apprehend Francesca Moretti for Olivia Bram’s father to deal with her in his own way.
“Perhaps,” Miz Ghita says, “but that would require a meeting with Madam Francesca herself”—she grins suddenly, as if the likelihood of that not happening somehow pleases her—“and to get a meeting with the Madam is not an easy thing to do.”
“I can assure you,” I say with confidence, “that I can provide whatever the Madam needs, to gain her audience.”
Miz Ghita gestures the waiter over.
“I’ll have water,” she tells him, and then he turns to me.
“I’ll have the same.”
The waiter goes off to fulfill the request right away. Miz Ghita turns back to me, obviously feeling that she’s regained the control—Miz Ghita is a woman who doesn’t like to lose, and the moment I called her out by standing from the table, intending to leave, she was forced to drop her power over me down a notch just to make me stay. It pissed her off. Now she feels like she’s getting back at me for it by knowing there’s no way Francesca Moretti will agree to a meeting with me.
Only I can bet my left nut that she will.
“I will need to know,” Miz Ghita says, “what you intend to do with the merchandise before I can go any further. And you must know that we spend a great deal of money to prepare them, so your purchase offer must be double what was put into the merchandise, otherwise we cannot make a profit.”
“Money is in no way an obstacle,” I say matter-of-factly. “And what does it matter what I plan to do with the merchandise?”
The waiter walks over with four glasses and a tall glass bottle of sparkling water. He sets a glass in front of Miz Ghita, then in front of me, but when he goes to give Izabel and Nora one, I put up my hand to stop him. “That won’t be necessary,” I say, holding my solid gaze on his shrinking one. He nods once and sets the remaining two glasses on the table, away from Izabel and Nora, and then fills my and Miz Ghita’s glasses. Then he takes up the empty glasses again and leaves with them clasped between his fingers, the glasses clinking.
“We do not allow transactions with the masters out of Dubai,” Miz Ghita says in a low voice. “For business and personal reasons I am not at liberty to discuss with you, we do not deal with them under any circumstances, nor for any amount of money.” Her harsh brown eyes move left and right to examine our surroundings, making sure no one is in earshot. “If you have any dealings with them, Mr. Augustin, then we cannot do business.”
Raising my glass to my lips, I take a small sip.
“My purchase is to add to my own private collection,” I say, setting the glass down casually. I tilt my head slightly toward Nora on my left. “As you can see, I have a blond”—then to Izabel on my right—“and a redhead. I’m interested in…a horse of a different color.”
Izabel looks over at me sadly; I rest my hand on her thigh.
Miz Ghita takes a drink from her glass, her eyes watching me over the rim, skirting Izabel.
“I see,” she says, setting the glass in front of her. “Why, if you’re in such a hurry that you need one by the end of the week, would you go to the time-consuming trouble of opening another…account with an establishment you’ve not dealt with before? Why not just purchase one from wherever you purchased”—she waves her hand at Nora, and then Izabel—“these two? They are both very beautiful. And they seem very…tame”—she looks at Izabel, raising her thin brows—“except for this one; she is different.”
“We’re not here to discuss my girls,” I say calmly, but with an air of authority. “But to answer your other inquiry—why would I not want to go to the trouble? Was I wrong to believe that your merchandise is among the most elite in the world?”
She pauses and then says, “Absolutely not. But just the same, four days is a very short time. Even if everything checks out—your identity, your business claims, etcetera (she already checked these things out or she wouldn’t be meeting with me now)—and even if by some miracle Madam Francesca agrees to meet with you, she has so many other engagements ahead of you that it could be weeks, months, before your turn.” She takes another sip from her glass and then changes the mood. “I think this is all just a waste of your time, Mr. Augustin,” she says, brushing it all off as if I should just go ahead and leave like I’d intended before—she’s trying to play me at my own game. “Perhaps we can do business on another day, when you have more time to spare. After all, I’ve never heard of you, and quite frankly, Madam Moretti isn’t one to waste time with a man who has never been heard of before”—she pretends to be getting ready to leave, pushing the envelope I gave her back across the table to me, and then taking her purse from the table. “Some other time,” she says and rises into a stand.