The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(48)

Niklas





After sliding the dress over her naked form, Francesca says, “I want everyone to leave except for Niklas and his girls.”

“But Francesca—” Miz Ghita tries to say, stepping up.

“I said leave.”

“Very well.” Miz Ghita turns on her heels.

As she and the nameless decoy make their way out behind the four gunmen, the real Bianca starts to follow with the servant girl behind her. Emilio steps in front of Bianca and speaks angrily to her in Italian. I may not be able to understand the language, but I don’t need to to gather they’re arguing about Bianca humiliating Emilio in her role. Then Bianca hits the floor—Emilio’s hand had shot out so fast I hardly saw it before it made contact with the side of her face. Sitting on the floor with her legs bent beneath her, Bianca holds a hand over her cheek; there’s murder in her eyes.

Bianca scrambles to get to her feet, her tits bouncing all over the place, and she rushes Emilio from behind. He turns at the last moment and stops her cold, his hand wrapped about her throat.

“Dear Brother,” Francesca calls out, and Emilio turns around to face her. “Prepare my room.”

Emilio shoves Bianca backward, releasing her.

Bianca leaves shortly afterward, naked and wearing only a pearl necklace and a pair of high heels. The sound of the doors closing behind her echoes throughout the spacious room.

“Before we go any further,” Francesca says; her cold eyes sweep over Izabel, “there is a bit of a problem that will be remedied, or there will be no meeting.”

“What problem?” I ask.

Francesca slithers over to the desk and opens one of the drawers. No sound is heard as she moves her hand through its contents and then retrieves a long silver knife. She moves toward Izabel.

Oh shit…

I look between Francesca and Izabel, having no idea of Francesca’s intentions, but I know they’re dark and I know they have everything to do with Izabel and it makes me f*cking nervous. Instinctively I move—calmly, not in a rush—toward them and take Izabel by the arm, pulling her from the chair.

Izzy stands immediately even without my help; she keeps her hands linked together down in front of her. I expect to be able to feel her heart hammering through the vein in her arm, but I don’t.

Francesca stands in front of Izabel.

“Look at me, girl,” she commands.

Izabel does. “But Madam, I’m not a slave,” she says in a soft, timid voice.

Francesca grabs Izabel’s chin in her free hand and turns her head left and right, at an angle, side to side, up and down, inspecting her—and no doubt testing her, testing me.

“I can see why she’s your favorite,” Francesca says, looking at me briefly. “She is very beautiful, despite the scar on her stomach.” She glances in Nora’s direction, but never actually looks at her. “The blond is also stunning, but the scars and the missing finger are too much.”

I guess that means she doesn’t feel inadequate next to Nora because of Nora’s many ‘imperfections’—but what does that mean for Izzy? Francesca already knows I have a soft spot for ‘Naomi’, but I think she wants to know just how soft; how far I’m willing to let her go. If too far, Izzy could be in trouble, but if not far enough I’ll look weak, * whipped like Dorian Flynn, and that’s the same as licking the shit from Francesca’s boots, and she’ll lose any respect for me she might have.

“Niklas,” Izabel says, her face still wrenched in Francesca’s hand, “I’m afraid.”

You’re also a good liar.

A flash of silver sends panic through me as Francesca raises the knife.

“What are you doing?” I demand; my arm is suddenly between Francesca and Izabel. “I don’t care who you are; I won’t allow you to disfigure my property—that’s my privilege.”

Francesca smiles, and although it feels slippery and dangerous, I hold my fixed expression on her, and my arm in front of her, daring her to hurt Izabel. I start to reach for my gun until I remember I had to check it in at the door.

“Niklas…please,” Izabel cries softly.

“I will not break skin,” Francesca promises, still with that slippery smile. “It’s only temporary, I assure you.”

Reluctantly I lower my arm and rest it back at my side. I look at Izabel, softening my eyes on her, my way of telling Naomi that everything will be OK, and then look back at Francesca. I nod, giving her the go-ahead, and hoping like hell I don’t regret it. Francesca’s grinning eyes fall away from me and she grabs Izzy’s hair and starts cutting; the sharp shearing sound of metal on hair, hacking away chunks of Izabel’s auburn locks. In seconds the floor is covered in dark red hair, scattered in heaps around Izzy’s feet atop the Italian rug. I look up at her, taking in the sight of her botched haircut as unevenly as a five-year-old with a pair of scissors. At least it wasn’t cut too short near the scalp anywhere that Izzy would have to shave the rest off later. Strangely, Izabel looks relieved—better hair than flesh.

“Now go sit down,” Francesca tells her and moves back toward the desk.

With her head lowered in shame, Izabel maintains her scared act and walks back to the oversized chair.

“I have never heard of you…Niklas,” Francesca says, sashaying her hips as she walks toward Nora slowly, knife in hand. “And I must tell you, that even though your story checks out and I have found nothing on you to indicate you’re not who you claim to be, I am still not convinced.” She stops feet from Nora and turns to look back at me. “Surely you understand my…hesitations.”