The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(36)

Izabel hands her wine glass to Nora, turns her back to me and says, “If you would unzip me?”

Reluctant for only a moment, I fit my thumb and index finger around the zipper tab and slide it down the center of her back; smooth, tanned skin appears, replacing the white lace fabric of her dress. She’s wearing no bra, no panties—you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me; Izzy what are you doing?

Izabel steps out of her dress and turns around to face us, standing stark naked in the middle of the room for all of forty or fifty people to see, and every single pair of eyes, minus the eyes of the servants, turn in attention.

Goddamn she’s beautiful. More stunning than the naked statue of Venus of Arles on our way in, with a waist and hips like an hourglass, average-sized breasts but full and perfect—I can see what my brother sees in her now, I guess. Still doesn’t make Izzy any less of a mouthy bitch though.

Izabel smooths her fingertips over the gunshot scar on her stomach and then meets my eyes before turning her attention to Miz Ghita—my heart sinks, and I swallow a thick dose of guilt and regret because I’m the one who gave her that scar.

“May I explain to Madam Ghita how I came to be scarred?” Izabel asks me in a gentle voice, though hidden within it is a quiet conflict between the two of us: You shot me and you’re a bastard, Niklas. I know, and I’m sorry, Sarai; I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always be a bastard.

Miz Ghita looks right at me, waiting.

“Yes, Naomi,” I say quickly. “Tell her how you got that scar.”

Izabel steps back into her dress and pulls it up, sliding her arms into the thin strap sleeves—everyone watches. “I was shot,” she says, turning her back to me so I can zip her up, “in Los Angeles, California, by a very sick man.” Only I can hear the distaste in her voice, and only I can feel the sting.

Once the zipper is up, I drop my hands from her and she turns back around.

“I see,” says Miz Ghita, looking only at Izabel, wanting to know more. “And what happened to this sick man? Was he…dealt with?”

Without meeting my eyes, Izabel answers, “No, Madam, he is still running free out there somewhere as far as I know. But…I don’t fear him so much anymore”—(I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look back at her)—“because I have Niklas to protect me.”

Miz Ghita looks between us curiously.

“I suppose it was a good thing,” she tells Izabel, but is looking only at me, “that Mr. Augustin found you.”

I say nothing, and neither does Izabel.

The three of us—minus Nora—turn our heads in attention as a group of women and men emerge from an arched entrance to our left.





Niklas





Three. Five. Six. Eight. Nine women who resemble one another so closely that they look like blood sisters, walk out among a smaller group of men in suits; their escorts for the evening, I’m guessing.

The group spreads out, six of them with a man on their arm, and they begin to mingle with the guests. Some wear skimpy cocktail dresses; jewelry decorates their wrists and fingers; they all look very much alike, but one woman in particular stands out from the others. There’s something about her that sets her apart from the rest: her chin raised higher, the gleam in her eyes more dramatic, even the way her escort walks alongside her—dark hair, sharp brown eyes—he appears proud, as if he has been given the most important assignment of his career. He keeps his head high when he walks with her on his arm, never looking anyone in the eyes, not because he’s a slave, but because he’s too pompous to spare the effort.

Miz Ghita makes her way over to the two, the ends of her black dress swishing about her legs, her flashy jewelry jangling.

“Not yet,” I tell Izabel without looking at her, pushing the words through my teeth like a ventriloquist. I tighten my arm around hers, stopping her.

You’re too eager, Izzy, just be patient, I want to say but don’t. I can’t—Miz Ghita is looking in our direction.

I nod at her from across the twenty-five foot space, and the woman with the flaunting male escort locks eyes with me briefly, just long enough to get my attention.

The three converse; first about us, I’m sure, and then the same amount of discreet attention is given to a few other guests standing about the room. I didn’t expect to be the only man in question here tonight, and I’m glad for that; not all of the suspicion will be on me.

Finally Miz Ghita, and the proudest woman among the nine with her even prouder escort, make their way over to us.

“Madam Francesca Moretti,” Miz Ghita introduces us, “meet Mr. Niklas Augustin. Mr. Augustin, this is Madam Francesca.”

‘Francesca’ looks at me with a powerful, self-important grace. She presents me her hand at the same moment I reach for it, and I bow slightly and graze the top of it with my lips.

“I appreciate the invitation to be here this evening, Miz Moretti,” I tell her, addressing her properly. “And on such short notice.”

“It is my pleasure,” Francesca, who I know is not the real Francesca, says and then adds, “Madam Ghita tells me that you are looking for something in particular, that you have special needs?” She tilts her head gently to one side, inquiringly.

I nod. “Yes,” I say, “but I would prefer to speak about it in private.” I glance around the room briefly and add, “When time permits, of course.”