The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(45)

He turns his attention to the second servant girl who has been standing in the room quietly, waiting to be given any number of orders.

“Come here, girl,” Emilio tells her with the gesture of his fingers, curling them toward him.

The girl walks over to Emilio without hesitation.

“Emilio, I do not think that is—” Miz Ghita says but is cut off; Emilio’s hand shoots up, quieting her.

“Not now, Mother,” he snaps, but never takes his hooded eyes off me. “If the rest of you were doing your job, I wouldn’t have to do it for you.” He looks up at the girl. “Take off your dress.”

The girl takes off her dress and stands naked before him; creamy light brown skin; soft, supple, with a slender waist and curvy hips; dark hair tumbles down the center of her back.

“Your turn,” he says to me and his eyes fall on Izabel.

I don’t like where this is going.

“Naomi is off limits,” I tell Emilio. “I don’t care what you’re trying to prove, but it won’t be with her.” Without looking at Nora I tell her, “Aya, stand and take off your dress.”

Nora stands without hesitation and removes her dress.

Miz Ghita and the fake Francesca make a strange breathy noise that sounds like a suppressed gasp when Nora’s heavily scarred back is revealed—the nameless decoy remains undisturbed. Streaks of raw skin, pink and gray and ropy, crisscross her back in a pattern of chaos and brutality, from the top of her shoulders to the top of her ass. Some scars—put there by Fredrik Gustavsson—are still fresh, not yet smooth but are rigid and scabbed with areas red, inflamed. And just like Nora’s missing pinky finger, this too will work to my advantage, otherwise I never would’ve agreed to bring Nora on this mission. She’s too physically damaged to be considered suitable property; especially the kind of property a master would take with him to social gatherings.

Seems even Emilio is taken aback by Nora’s appearance; he gawks at her, even looks a bit aghast. And Bianca, the left-handed servant girl, can’t help but look right at Nora, though thankfully for her I’m the only one in the room who seems to notice her disobedience.

The Moretti family may have both feet planted firmly in the sex slave trade, but they, like many high-class sellers—even the masters—would never beat a girl as severely as Nora clearly has been beaten. Her scars are vibrant evidence of torture, and torture is not the same thing as punishment. A master can’t sell a girl who looks like Nora—except to a sick bastard like Niklas Augustin. And this is where I will undoubtedly gain the interest of the real Francesca and finally get her alone. Because the notorious Madam Francesca Moretti, I believe, is just like Niklas Augustin. At least I f*cking hope so, because what I’m about to do next will either secure my private meeting, or get me tossed out of this place on my ass.

After a long moment with no one saying anything, I look to Emilio and say casually, “You were saying, Mr. Moretti?” I cock my head gently to one side.

He pauses, looks at Nora’s back, then looks at me again.

“Some of those wounds are new,” he points out the obvious.

I nod.

Emilio’s eyes dart from one person to the next.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” I say, “you’ve never had to beat one of your girls almost to the brink of death, Mr. Moretti.” My gaze is calm and collected, sadistic.

Emilio rests his back against the sofa again, straightens his suit jacket, props his right ankle atop the left knee.

“I haven’t personally, no,” he answers. “I like my girls…unblemished, Mr. Augustin.”

Maybe you do, Emilio, but your big bad murderous sister, I think takes pleasure in beating girls to the edges of their lives.

Miz Ghita stands from the leather loveseat.

“Mr. Augustin,” she says, rounding her chin, “I’ve already had a discussion with you about how—”

“Yes, I remember,” I cut in without looking at her, “you told me Madam Francesca won’t do business with someone who disfigures a piece she has spent far too much money, time and resources molding to perfection—your warning remains perfectly clear in my memory.” Finally I look right at Miz Ghita, and add with uncompromising eyes, “But I’m not looking to buy a piece, as I’ve told you; I’m in the market to buy a cyprian.”

“Well just the same—“

“No,” I interrupt again, displaying for the real Francesca the one of us—me or her mother—who’s in control here. “I’m confident that Madam Francesca will do business with me, no matter what I intend to do with my property after I’ve paid for it.” My gaze roves about the room, drinking in almost every set of eyes. I reach into my suit jacket pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes, pop one between my lips and light it. And while Miz Ghita stares at me, appalled by my rude, disgusting gesture, I continue with the upper-hand, puffing happily on my cigarette. “But spare me the self-righteous spiel about how the Madam cares about the safety and health of her cyprians, or the pieces she sells in her showings—I’m not here to report her to some f*cking underground Health Board, or write her establishment up on code violations. I don’t give a shit about the way Madam Francesca chooses to treat her slaves—I don’t give two f*cks if she kills them, slowly, or if she feeds the leftovers to her dogs. I’m here, as I’ve said before, to do business with the Madam, and only the Madam.”