The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(37)

“Of course,” she responds.

Miz Ghita cuts in, “After the Madam visits with the other guests, and after the showing, she will accommodate you the private meeting you paid for. Why don’t you introduce her to your companion.”

A small smile manipulates one corner of my mouth—they may be fooling every other guest in this mansion, but I’m not every other guest. They’re just oblivious men—and a few women—who are here for sex, and none of them have any clue about this woman being a decoy for the real madam. They probably couldn’t give a shit less anyway, because unlike me, they’re not technically here for Francesca Moretti.

I look to Izabel, and then back at the decoy.

“This is my girl, Naomi,” I answer, and Izabel bows her head slightly, offering the decoy a smile. “Kind of like your left-handed servant girl, Naomi is my favorite; no longer a slave, however. What about your favorites draws you to choose them?” It’s simple conversation, really, but an unanticipated enough question that only the real Francesca would be able to answer without hesitation.

The decoy’s eyes shift to look at Miz Ghita. She appears puzzled, as if she doesn’t know what to say, but this time it’s the male escort who cuts in, which surprises me.

“I am Emilio Moretti,” he introduces himself proudly in a thick Italian accent. “Francesca’s brother. What business did you say you were in, Mister…Augustin is it?” He cocks his head to one side, scrutinizing me under hard, dark eyebrows.

Ah, so that explains his untouchable character—he’s almost as high up on the food chain here as Miz Ghita. And although I don’t for a f*cking second believe that this particular woman is Francesca Moretti, I do get the feeling that Emilio is who he says he is. After all, the decoy, who can only pretend to be Francesca so much, needs the aid of the real Francesca’s closest and most trusted advisors. And in the case of a prominent Italian family such as this one, there is no one closer and more trusted than other members of the family.

“I’m an investor,” I say. “Stock market, real estate—”

“So you flip houses,” Emilio cuts me off, pissing on his turf; a snide grin follows, suggesting that flipping houses is for paupers and peasants.

The left-handed servant girl from before makes another round with a tray of wine, and I take a glass; my cool attention never leaves Emilio.

Smiling lightly, I bring the glass to my lips, take a small sip and then say afterward, “Actually, Emilio”—I take another sip just to draw out the moment—“there’s a lot of money to be made in, as you call it, flipping houses, if one knows what he’s buying. But to be honest, that’s not exactly what I do.”

“Then what is it, Mr. Augustin, that you do…exactly?” He takes a glass from the tray and brings it to his lips; his eyes remain on me, unblinking, over the rim as he drinks slowly.

“That,” I say with confidence, “is also better discussed in private”—I smile at the decoy standing next to him—“with the Madam. No offense, Mr. Moretti, but I don’t discuss my business ventures with anyone other than the one who sits at the head of the table. Clearly, you’re not that person.”

Emilio’s dark eyes flash, and he looks over at Miz Ghita standing next to the quiet servant girl holding the wine tray.

“I don’t think I like your tone,” he tells me.

I smile faintly, and then take another sip of wine.

“Yes, but your family’s establishment I suspect doesn’t give a shit about your opinion of my tone; my bank account is all that matters—isn’t it, Miz Moretti?” I glance at the decoy.

She takes a glass from the wine tray just as another one of the women who resembles her walks up without an escort.

Finally the decoy pretending to be Francesca steps up her game—now that she’s had time to figure out what to say. She looks over at Emilio, just as he’s about to say something in retaliation to me, and she holds up a finger to shut him up.

“That will be enough, dear Brother—I certainly don’t need you, or Mother, speaking for me.” Her dark eyes pass over Miz Ghita and then find mine. “To answer your question, Mr. Augustin: dark hair and the lightest brown skin, like Bianca’s here”—she reaches out to the servant girl and brushes the back of her fingers across the bare flesh of her shoulder—“is what makes me choose them; all of my most beloved pets possess these essential qualities.” She looks at Izabel. “What qualities must your favorites possess?”

“Well I only have one favorite girl,” I say without pause. “But what I look for in them are flaws. Particular flaws, however; I’m definitely not the kind of man who could put his cock in a woman who has the face of a horse.”

The decoy, the silent lookalike now standing beside her, and Emilio, all seem quietly stunned by my vulgarity. Even Izabel’s eyes meet mine for a brief second and I know she’s asking, “What the hell are you doing?”

Miz Ghita is unfazed.

What I’m doing, Izabel, is being myself—what did you expect, that I’d put on a suit and pretend that I’m Victor? You should know me better than that by now.

The fake Francesca smiles craftily. “That is certainly understandable, Mr. Augustin,” she says. “And I can assure you that you will find no women—or men—here who are not of the highest standards.”