The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(47)

I grin, looking her over.

“You and I, Miz Moretti,” I go on, staring into Francesca’s eyes, and I feel them drinking me in, “have a lot in common, and I trust that you’ll find our…business relationship”—I pause, smile faintly—“to be, shall I say, more than just…lucrative.”

“Get him out of here,” I hear Miz Ghita bark from behind, and then four men in suits rush quickly into the room, guns raised at me.

Francesca Moretti, formerly known as Bianca, raises her left hand in front of her and without saying a word the men stop cold in their tracks, shrinking backward a few steps with their tails between their legs. Emilio doesn’t move or speak; he continues to look at the floor—is that fear crippling Francesca’s brother? Yeah, that’s definitely fear, unbecoming of someone like Emilio. In fact, he’s not the only person in the room who reeks of it: Miz Ghita stands with her chin held high, but her aged hands are shaking inconspicuously down at her sides; the nameless decoy sits quietly on the loveseat, body hunched over, hands tucked between her knees—not the same strong woman who walked in here earlier; the servant girl, standing naked in the center of the room the entire time seemingly without breathing, her shoulders rise and fall more rapidly as though she’s trying to quell an anxiety attack; and the fake Francesca—well, she looks like she’s about to piss herself.

I wasn’t entirely sure before, but now, judging by most of the faces in the room, it is without a doubt that every single one of them are terrified of Francesca Moretti: the bitter mother, the devoted brother—though to a lesser degree for some reason; the decoys who I believe are Francesca’s and Emilio’s sisters or cousins. None of them are innocent by any means, they’re just as guilty of buying and selling and a variety of cruel punishments they dish out to the slaves, but none of them are as vicious and murderous as I believe Francesca Moretti to be.





Izabel





Is it just me, or are these people afraid to breathe? Wow…OK, I didn’t expect this. At all. I thought for sure the lookalike sitting on the loveseat was the real Francesca. Earlier at the showing, I was convinced it was Valentina. But I never would’ve imagined it was her. I want to look over at Nora just to see if there’s anything on her face, but…even I’m a little afraid to move, or draw attention to myself. I knew going into this that Francesca Moretti was an evil bitch, but there’s more to this than I imagined, there’s so much more to her—she sets my teeth on edge and she hasn’t even spoken yet.

I wonder what Nora’s thinking.





Nora





Now we’re getting somewhere! Oh God, I was starting to go out of my mind playing this pathetic obedient doormat. But now things are looking up. And it’s about damn time Niklas called her out. I’m just glad he picked the right woman. I was beginning to wonder.

Now I only wonder if Niklas and Izabel know what they’ve gotten themselves into. That woman may look frail in that pretty little slave dress; her unpainted features may appear gentle and flawless and kind even, but she’s anything but kind—a demon lives underneath that flesh. I’ve seen people like her, faced and killed people like her, and they excite me; they make my job that much more interesting, more dangerous, and I live for these types of jobs. Well…in a different role, of course.




Niklas





Francesca slowly lowers her arm back at her side. Quietly she takes a few steps forward—Emilio, the fake Francesca and Miz Ghita move backward to clear her way, and undoubtedly to stay out of arm’s reach. The four men with guns bow low at the waist and hold the position. I stay right where I’m at, bold and undaunted in her authoritarian presence. Neither Augustin nor Fleischer would lower himself to that shit; I don’t care if she’s a murderous nutcase—but I have to keep playing the Augustin role, pretending she and I are one in the same: two sadistic peas in a pod.

Francesca looks right at me; she never blinks; she’s so f*cking calm and calculated that I find myself stumbling through my thoughts, but I easily retain confidence and power on my face.

“You intrigue me, Mr. Augustin.” Her voice is red wine laced with arsenic; her dark eyes are endless pools of malevolence and beauty—you want to look away, but you can’t.

“Call me Niklas,” I say smoothly; I reach out and take her hand, bending to kiss the top of it.

“It would please me, Niklas, to have a private meeting with you.” She turns only her head to look at the fake Francesca and she says, “Give me your dress, Bianca.”

“Yes, Sister,” the one whose name is actually Bianca says.

Bianca scurries over to Francesca quickly, strips off her cream-white lacy dress and rests it over her forearm until Francesca is ready to take it from her. She waits, naked, with only a string of pearls around her neck, dipping between her tits.

Francesca hasn’t for a second taken her eyes off me.

She clasps her fingers around the hem of her servant’s dress and lifts the fabric over her head, dropping it on the floor afterward. Francesca is without a doubt, unlike any woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the power she possesses, I don’t know, but she’s goddamn beautiful. It’s just too bad she’s likely a homicidal waste of air who needs to be put down.