The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(54)
“Yeah, and it did,” I say. “That’s one million minus the twenty thousand I paid to meet with your mother, and the fifty thousand I paid to meet with your sister.” I smile at him and add smartly, “I bet you hate it that having your audience is free.”
“Niklas,” Francesca interrupts—she saw the same fed-up look of murder in her brother that I just saw and is trying to thwart a retaliation, “you do realize that my girls are not cheap, not even my cyprians. I hope you don’t think that because they are considered damaged goods, that you’re going to get off with some kind of”—she twirls her hand at the wrist—“discounted price. And since you made the mistake of letting me know how much you want a damaged girl, I get to charge you more for her than I might otherwise.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I tell her. “I wanted you to know exactly what I need, and that my preference is important to me so that I get what I want. Just like I told Miz Ghita at the restaurant: money is no issue.”
“Then perhaps we’ll charge you more than you have,” Emilio speaks up, setting the briefcase harshly back onto my legs.
I look only at Francesca.
“You could,” I tell her. “But then if you f*ck me like that, I’ll most certainly be taking my money to that ‘incompetent woman who doesn’t know the first thing about this business’ the next time I’m looking to buy.”
Emilio sits on the sofa across from me, smirking, still hopeful that something he does or says will eventually mean more than shit to me. And then just when that thought crosses my mind, he manages to find something after all. He looks at Izabel with intent in his eyes—and he holds it, making sure that I make note of it. All right, Emilio, you have my attention now; be really f*cking careful because if you touch her I’ll beat you to death.
Niklas
“I will give you a fair price,” Francesca assures me.
Moments later the elevator is climbing the metal again, almost soundlessly; the top comes into view and then the faces of Miz Ghita and the servant girl from earlier who Nora tripped. The glass doors slide open and Miz Ghita, holding onto the girl’s elbow, walks her forward and toward Emilio.
Emilio stands from the sofa, straightens his jacket, a devilish grin twists his mouth. He reaches for ‘Ela’, but his hand stops midair when he hears Francesca’s voice behind him.
“I will punish her,” she says, and for the briefest of moments even Emilio appears uncomfortable.
He drops his arm back at his side and then steps to the left, gesturing with his hand out, palm up, so Ela will approach Francesca on the dais. I think Emilio had something else in mind for punishment, maybe another beating like Nora had, and that he be the one to carry it out, but the turn of events even has him tense; there’s something unfamiliar hidden in his eyes, something I didn’t expect Emilio would possess: uneasiness. But he hides it well. Unlike their mother who stands behind the sofa across from me, looking at no one, but instead at anything inanimate. I get the distinct feeling that she doesn’t want to be here.
Then she looks up at her daughter sitting on her throne and says with as much courage as she can muster, “I’ll go wait downstairs for the girls,” and she starts to walk away.
“No, Mother, I’d like for you to stay here a moment.”
Miz Ghita inhales a breath, mouth open slightly; she clasps her hands on her backside and goes back to staring at anything without eyes.
Izabel is sitting upright now; I can feel her body tense next to mine—she knows as much as anyone that something f*cked up is about to happen.
Nora is…still the emotionless, unmoving, most unaffected-by-anything person I’ve ever seen. I think maybe she’s better at my job than I am.
“Come here, Ela,” Francesca says, curling her finger toward her.
The girl doesn’t hesitate, but she walks with rapid breath and tight shoulders, and she ascends the marble steps on legs so shaky I’m surprised she can walk on them at all.
Izabel’s leg presses against mine, but I don’t think she notices. No Izzy…don’t break character. Please don’t f*cking break character.
The girl named Ela; soft, innocent, scared, gets on her knees in front of Francesca’s throne and bows her head low, all the way to the floor where she presses her forehead, her arms stretched out above her head, palms flat against the marble. My stomach flip-flops when the girl standing beside the makeup tray places a small pair of garden shears into Francesca’s hand. No Niklas…don’t f*cking break character.
Emilio watches from below the dais, his hands also folded on his backside; his shoulders are tight, drawn up slightly; I see his jaw flexing as if he’s nervously grinding his teeth. Every other servant girl in the room stands perfectly still; no one is breathing, no one is blinking, but everyone including me wishes we were somewhere else.
“Sit up and give me your hand, Ela.” Francesca reaches out for it, and she waits.
Ela raises herself up and moves closer, offers her hand to the fiend on the white throne.
“Since the two of them are so much alike,” Francesca says about Ela and Nora, taking Ela’s hand, “then they will share deformities as well.”
Ela’s bloodcurdling scream sets my teeth on edge and every muscle in my body stiffens when the razor-sharp garden shears slice through flesh and tendon and bone. I can hear the metal on bone in my head, crunching, grating, cutting through to my subconscious where Augustin is trying his damndest to tame Fleischer, keep him under control in this pivotal moment. Dark red liquid sprays Francesca’s elegant white robe, pours from the detaching finger as she works the shears in her hand, cutting and cutting until the pinky finger is completely detached. Izabel’s fingers are digging into my thigh, and if it weren’t for my pants, her fingernails would be in my skin. She looks only at the floor. How did my hand get on her waist? I squeeze her gently, hoping to soothe her, and though I know it won’t, I do it anyway.