The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(51)

I look at Nora, still standing in the same spot, in the same obedient position all this time, and I smile even though she’s not looking at me.

“Come, Aya,” I tell her, and she does exactly as I say.

I’m gonna love the shit out of this.





Niklas





We take an elevator to the top floor, five floors up, and step out into a room unlike I’ve ever seen—because I’ve never been to a crazy narcissist’s house before. The entire floor that could hold a dozen large rooms is one massive space overlooking the four floors beneath it from a circular balcony in the center. Twelve great arched windows are positioned in the wall, bare of curtains, the glass filled up with the night sky; the wall rises up many feet seamlessly to form the ceiling shaped like a dome above us. More life-sized Greek and Roman statues stand tall on their marble and white stone bases. White. This woman loves the color white; everything is saturated in it: the walls and floor and even the furniture; the only colors that offset the blinding shit are the swirling grays in the white marble, and the black in the fringes on the sofa pillows, and the black and grays in the Italian rugs.

At least twenty slaves stand waiting in various spots within the room, all dressed in sheer white cotton dresses with nothing on underneath; no shoes on their feet.

As if the room wasn’t proof enough of how powerful and spoiled this woman is, there’s a throne, an actual throne sitting impressively at the far end of the room atop an enormous marble dais five steps high. The throne is even white, made of wood, with intricate carvings along the legs and arms, and plush white cushions on the seat and back, which is at least two feet taller than her head if she were sitting in it. Long sheer white pieces of expensive silk and lace fabric drape the throne: over both arms, across the seat, over the tall back, and flow out into the floor.

Francesca leaves us and makes her way through the room as if she were a queen, moving effortlessly over the cool marble floor. Slave girls approach her immediately, knowing what to do; one takes the dress from her hand at the exact moment Francesca places it there, while two other girls slip a long white silk robe onto Francesca’s outstretched arms. Everything is precise and fluid, like a well-rehearsed ballet: the way the girls move around to Francesca’s front at the same time and enclose her naked body inside the fabric, to the way they step away from her at the same moment, bow their heads low and then turn to face each other as Francesca walks between them.

Two girls await her at the throne, one on each side; the one on the left stands beside a silver tray that appears to hold all sorts of makeup and tools to apply the makeup; the one on the right stands with a comb in one hand and something in the other I’m assuming might be hair decorations of some sort—I’m surprised no one has come in and put a crown on the bitch’s head.

Emilio walks past the three of us and goes toward his sister. I notice that although he does whatever she tells him to do, he’s not afraid—for the most part—to approach her when he wants, to speak to her freely when he wants, or to touch her when he wants. No one else would be able to do that. Francesca would probably kill them swiftly. Or, at least in the case of her sisters and her mother, they might just get the shit knocked out of them—they are Francesca’s blood after all.

Emilio leans in and touches his lips to the edge of Francesca’s mouth, and as he pulls away slowly, his eyes move to look at me in a sidelong stare; a grin dances on his lips.

“Please,” Francesca says, unfolding her hand toward me, “make yourself comfortable.” She gestures toward the furniture placed not far from the bottom step of the dais.

Emilio descends the steps just as we make our way to the sofa, and the moment Emilio moves out of the way of his sister, the two slave girls who had been waiting on the left and right of her, get to work on her hair and makeup; another comes up and sprays perfume in her direction.

I take a seat on the sofa; Izabel sits next to me; as always Nora sits at my feet on the floor next to my briefcase.

“Emilio,” Francesca says, “bring Niklas my whip.”

“Of course,” he says with a sly grin.

I want to glance at Nora, see if she looks nervous, but I don’t. Besides, I know she’s not afraid of me—she let Fredrik torture her.

Emilio moves somewhere on the other side of the vast room; I keep my eyes on Francesca.

“I have a few cyprians for you in mind,” Francesca speaks up. “I will have someone bring them here soon for you to look at. But as they do not reside here in my mansion; it may be an hour or so before they arrive. I trust an hour isn’t too long to wait?” The girl putting on her makeup always pauses when Francesca speaks, and then starts back up again when she’s done.

“I can wait two hours if I need to.”

Emilio appears in front of me, leather whip dangling from his hand. With a crooked smile he holds it out to me.

“Unless you’d like me to do the honors,” he suggests, glancing at Nora.

I think on it. “You know what,” I say, “I’d like that very much. Be my guest.”

They didn’t expect that; Francesca and Emilio lock eyes momentarily. Then Emilio turns his attention back to me and says, “Well if you insist,” and he reaches down and grabs a hold of Nora’s elbow, yanking her to her feet.

“You would let another man punish your girls?” Francesca inquires suspiciously.