The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(35)

I sip my wine casually, always taking my time, and then answer, “I get the sense you’re assuming that when I bought her, all ten digits were in-tact.” I offer her a subtle smile, lifting one corner of my mouth; a gleam in my eye.

“Madam Francesca is unlikely to do business with anyone who disfigures his property—we spend far too much money, time and resources molding our merchandise to perfection.”

“Why would any of you care what I do with my property after it is mine?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t give a damn,” she bites back; her wrinkled mouth tightening on one side. “But Madam Francesca is, shall I say, particular about her pieces—do you think a great painter would appreciate a man destroying what he put his heart and soul into creating after he takes it home from auction? Would an architect want the skyscraper he spent years designing and building, demolished to put a parking lot in its place?” Her beady brown eyes grow colder and she cocks her head to one side. “Madam Francesca takes pride in her work—this is yet another reason we are particular, and careful, about who we sell to outright.”

Now to test Nora’s ability to improvise.

“Aya,” I say without looking at Nora, “look at Madam Ghita and tell her why you were relieved of your finger, and how you came to be in my possession.”

Nora, still holding the briefcase, raises her head, and she looks right at Miz Ghita but never holds eye contact for longer than a second—she knows that to hold it would suggest they’re equals.

“Aya’s finger was removed by her former master for being disobedient, Madam,” Nora says in a soft, meek voice. “Master Niklas purchased Aya because of her imperfection.” She lowers her head again immediately after.

Well played, Nora Kessler, well played.

Miz Ghita’s cold eyes shift to look at me, and I can actually see a small spark of belief—and surprise—hidden within them.

“I see,” she says with a narrowed gaze. “So I take it you’re in the market for a left-handed girl then.” A faint grin flashes across her eyes.

My mouth lifts on one side and I take one last sip of my wine, setting the glass down on a tray as it passes in the hand of another servant girl.

“You play dirty, Mr. Augustin,” she says, referring to my manipulating Trevor Chamberlain. “I like that—but don’t make the mistake of thinking I like you; you won’t be leaving this place with any special deals or arrangements—if you leave with anything at all.”

“I would expect nothing less than a hard bargain, Miz Ghita.”

“Well just the same,” she says, “that particular left-handed girl is not for sale.”

“To be honest,” I state, “it’s not only left-handed girls I’m interested in. I look for flaws; flaws make a woman unique, give her personality. But out of curiosity, why is that particular girl not for sale?”

Miz Ghita looks back at the dark-haired servant girl twenty feet away, weaving her way through crowds with her tray on her hand.

“She is one of Madam Francesca’s favorites,” Miz Ghita says, and instantly I sense a change in Izabel.

Maybe it was just instinct that I look at her in that moment, knowing her history with Javier Ruiz, how she was his favorite—I don’t know, but I noticed when her jaw tightened. It was only a split second, but I saw it; thankfully no one else did. Izabel’s soft, smiling, obedient face never falters, and she raises her own glass of wine and puts it to her lips.

“I understand about favorites all too well, I admit,” I say to Miz Ghita, glancing at Izabel with hidden meaning that Miz Ghita catches onto right away.

She looks briefly at Izabel, too, and then nods at me, understanding.

“I wonder what flaw this one has then,” she says, expecting me to answer.

“Naomi’s flaw is not so visible, but I can assure you she has one,” I say, and leave it at that.

Miz Ghita looks Izabel over with the calculated sweep of hard beady eyes—I just hope she doesn’t ask me to prove it, because unlike my brother, I haven’t seen any other part of Izabel’s body to know if there’s anything wrong with it. Maybe I should remedy that later when we go back to the hotel, make Izzy squirm a little, make her regret ever wanting to be a part of this mission—that’ll teach her stubborn ass.

But Miz Ghita is relentless.

“I’m very curious to know what it is,” she says, looking Izabel over once more before her vulture eyes, full of expectation, fall on me—it’s such a petty thing, but for some reason she wants to know and she wants to know now. And I can’t refuse her. It would look suspicious to keep it from her because it’s so petty; and after I just paraded Nora’s missing finger, and admitted to Miz Ghita that I look for flaws in my girls, it would seem as though I’m proud of them, and not to show off the flaw of my ‘favorite’ girl, would seem suspicious. Fuck—what do I say?

“May I show her?” Izabel speaks up, snapping me out of my sudden panicked mind.

I look at Izabel, and she’s looking back at me, sweet-tempered, confident, fearless—more in control of this situation than I clearly am.

Finally I nod and answer, “Yes, Naomi, show Madam Ghita your flaw,” having no idea what it is, and hoping like hell I’m not exhibiting that in my face.