“Money is in no way an obstacle,” I say matter-of-factly. “And what does it matter what I plan to do with the merchandise?”
The waiter walks over with four glasses and a tall glass bottle of sparkling water. He sets a glass in front of Miz Ghita, then in front of me, but when he goes to give Izabel and Nora one, I put up my hand to stop him. “That won’t be necessary,” I say, holding my solid gaze on his shrinking one. He nods once and sets the remaining two glasses on the table, away from Izabel and Nora, and then fills my and Miz Ghita’s glasses. Then he takes up the empty glasses again and leaves with them clasped between his fingers, the glasses clinking.
“We do not allow transactions with the masters out of Dubai,” Miz Ghita says in a low voice. “For business and personal reasons I am not at liberty to discuss with you, we do not deal with them under any circumstances, nor for any amount of money.” Her harsh brown eyes move left and right to examine our surroundings, making sure no one is in earshot. “If you have any dealings with them, Mr. Augustin, then we cannot do business.”
Raising my glass to my lips, I take a small sip.
“My purchase is to add to my own private collection,” I say, setting the glass down casually. I tilt my head slightly toward Nora on my left. “As you can see, I have a blond”—then to Izabel on my right—“and a redhead. I’m interested in…a horse of a different color.”
Izabel looks over at me sadly; I rest my hand on her thigh.
Miz Ghita takes a drink from her glass, her eyes watching me over the rim, skirting Izabel.
“I see,” she says, setting the glass in front of her. “Why, if you’re in such a hurry that you need one by the end of the week, would you go to the time-consuming trouble of opening another…account with an establishment you’ve not dealt with before? Why not just purchase one from wherever you purchased”—she waves her hand at Nora, and then Izabel—“these two? They are both very beautiful. And they seem very…tame”—she looks at Izabel, raising her thin brows—“except for this one; she is different.”
“We’re not here to discuss my girls,” I say calmly, but with an air of authority. “But to answer your other inquiry—why would I not want to go to the trouble? Was I wrong to believe that your merchandise is among the most elite in the world?”
She pauses and then says, “Absolutely not. But just the same, four days is a very short time. Even if everything checks out—your identity, your business claims, etcetera (she already checked these things out or she wouldn’t be meeting with me now)—and even if by some miracle Madam Francesca agrees to meet with you, she has so many other engagements ahead of you that it could be weeks, months, before your turn.” She takes another sip from her glass and then changes the mood. “I think this is all just a waste of your time, Mr. Augustin,” she says, brushing it all off as if I should just go ahead and leave like I’d intended before—she’s trying to play me at my own game. “Perhaps we can do business on another day, when you have more time to spare. After all, I’ve never heard of you, and quite frankly, Madam Moretti isn’t one to waste time with a man who has never been heard of before”—she pretends to be getting ready to leave, pushing the envelope I gave her back across the table to me, and then taking her purse from the table. “Some other time,” she says and rises into a stand.
“Sit down, Miz Ghita Moretti,” I say, and her whole face freezes in a stunned display, which she tries quickly to hide and regain her composure.
Propping my elbows on the table, I raise my arms, folding my hands in front of me, right covering the left.
I nod toward her chair.
“Investing, Miz Moretti, isn’t so much a gamble when you have something the wealthiest men—and women—in the world will pay top dollar to possess.”
Izabel’s gaze passes over me vaguely from the side; Nora never looks up from her lap.
Slowly Miz Ghita takes her seat again, and I go on, playing my unbeatable hand and taking all the spoils.
“My investments involve a little more than stock markets and real estate.”
“Who are you?” Miz Ghita eyes me suspiciously, coldly. “You know who I am—bestow me the same courtesy.”
I couldn’t be absolutely sure before, that she’s Francesca Moretti’s mother, but I had an itching gut instinct and went with it. I did my homework on the Moretti family all night after Izabel left me in the bar, and I found out that it’s tradition the daughter take over the reins of the operation when the mother is no longer considered ‘desirable’. But the mother remains involved in the most important aspects of the business—clients and money and security—until she dies.
I smile darkly, confidently, at Miz Ghita.
“The particulars of my identity,” I say, “are for the eyes and ears of the Madam only. But I will give you a message to relay to her, in which I’m confident will be the deciding factor in the decision to grant me a meeting”—I pause and take a sip of water, taking my time—“and approval for a purchase, of course.” I set the glass down.
Miz Ghita swallows nervously, irritably, but retains her firm, unshakable demeanor. She straightens her back and shoulders underneath her dark blouse, to stay on the same level as me.
“And what might that message be?” She raises her chin importantly.
Placing my fingers on the envelope again, I slide it back across the table to her. “Tell the Madam that before I leave this city, either she and I will be”—I gesture my hand gently with the twirl of my wrist—“new business associates, or I will help put her out of business by giving my money to Madam Carlotta over in Milan instead. I hear Madam Carlotta has tripled her revenue in the past year.” I smirk. But just a little bit.
Miz Ghita, with her sourpuss mouth, contemplates my offer, and my threats for a moment. Then she stands—I stand with her as any gentleman would for a woman—and she takes the envelope from the table and tucks it down into her big black purse.
“I will be in touch, Mr. Augustin.”
I nod. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Niklas
On the drive back to the hotel, Izabel and Nora want so badly to be able to speak freely. And after I tip the driver, when we head back to our room, all the way there Izabel is practically bursting at the seams. But she does well to stay in character, at least until we enter the room, shut the door behind us and do another sweep.
“How’d you know?” Izabel asks, setting her little black purse down on a table and stepping out of her heels. “And who was she exactly?”
“She’s Francesca’s mother,” I answer, loosening my tie.
I explain to Izabel and Nora how I came to the conclusion.
“I’m impressed,” Nora speaks up. “Honestly I had my doubts that you could play such a role.”
“Why’s that?” I toss my tie on the end of the king-size bed and start to break apart the buttons of my dress shirt.
“I just took you as more the stubborn¸ complicated type, I guess.”
I look away from her and strip off my shirt.
“Well, we haven’t gotten in yet,” I point out.
“Do you think she bought it?” Izabel asks.
“Yes, she bought it,” I say simply.
“Although,” Nora speaks up, “the route you took might backfire. Threats don’t always yield results.”
“No, they don’t,” I agree, “but this one will.” I step out of my dress pants and walk toward the spacious bathroom in my boxers—Izabel makes it a point to look at anything but me, which I find amusing. “A woman like Francesca isn’t stupid; she isn’t delusional in thinking nothing can take her down—she’ll take any threat to her business seriously, especially a rival.”
“Well it worked,” Izabel says. “I thought she was going to walk out and that be the end of it.”
“Once we’re in, the gears will shift,” I say. “After I figure out which of the decoys is Francesca Moretti, I’ll meet with her, feed her some bullshit about my business if I have to, but then shift
to the real reason I came here: to purchase a new girl. I’ll show her that I’m not trying to be a threat to her operation—unless she wants me to be, and that’s not likely, so it’s more likely she’ll just drop it.”
“You’re making this sound too easy, Niklas,” Nora speaks up from the sofa in the center of the spacious room.
I glance between them and say, “If I was doing this by myself, it would be a lot easier—it’s not me that I’m worried about.” My eyes fall on Izabel last, but before she has a chance to argue, I shut myself off inside the bathroom and hop in the shower.
My cell phone rings—Izabel’s and Nora’s heads turn simultaneously to look at me when they hear it, because it could only be someone from the Moretti mansion calling this particular number.
I answer on the third ring.
“Yes, this is Niklas Augustin,” I say into the phone to Ghita Moretti. “It’s good to hear from you so soon. Yes”—I nod here and there, listening to Miz Ghita’s pitch, telling me the rules and being her typical authoritarian self so she feels like the one in control. “Yes—No the time is perfect. I will be there. Yes, my girls will be joining me”—(does this bitch ever shut up?)—“I will see you then—of course I’ll be bringing cash. Good day, Miz Ghita.” I run my thumb over the phone screen to end the call.
Nora and Izabel look surprised—I admit, even I’m a little surprised.
“I didn’t expect to hear from her this soon,” I say, setting the phone on the coffee table in front of me. “They want to meet with us tonight at ten—money talks.”
“And so do threats,” Nora chimes in.
“But that’s in three hours,” Izabel says, looking slightly concerned.
“What’s the matter? Starting to feel like you should?” I taunt, grinning at her.
She shakes her head, sighing, annoyed with me. “Will you ever grow up, Niklas? You’re impossibly…you’re a jack-ass.”
I get up from the sofa so I can get ready.
“Get it all out here,” I tell her as I pass, heading toward the closet where ‘Mr. Augustin’s’ suit hangs. “Remember, play your role, Izzy, and play it well or we don’t make it out of this alive.”
“You should have more confidence in her,” Nora speaks up. “I agree with Izabel—you should grow up; stop treating her like—”
“Like a girl who needs some sense knocked into her?” I cut in. “I’ll never accept Izzy as an operative—and you know as well as I do that she has no business doing this shit.” I point my index finger at Nora and then myself, back and forth. “You and me, we’ve been doing this for how long? Oh, that’s right—since we were children. She should be living with that woman in Arizona, going to the fucking bars on Friday nights, getting the shit fucked out of her by lazy twenty-four-year-old wannabe rock stars; hanging out with her girlfriends, feeling each other’s tits in their exploratory phase—not working for a billion dollar assassination organization, with little to no experience, going on missions like this one that’ll only open old wounds and cut new ones—she’s not ready, and she never will be, so shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.”
“I’m standing right here, you fucking asshole!” Izabel steps right up into my face; her eyes are blazing with indignation; her jaw moves as she grinds her teeth.
She starts to say something, surely in argument to the things I just said, but she calms herself, and it surprises me, confuses me even—I’d never expect anything less from her than a fight. Instead she takes a deep breath and says cool and composed, “Let’s get ready—this is a multi-million dollar job,” and then she walks away, disappearing around the corner as she heads into the room adjacent to the main room where her wardrobe is.
Nora and I just stand here for a moment.
She looks at me. I look at her.
“What are you doing, Niklas?” she asks suspiciously, in a quiet voice so Izabel doesn’t hear.
“What do you mean?” My hard gaze never wavers.
Instead of elaborating, Nora shakes her head as if she knows something I don’t and then moves toward the bathroom, walking past me.
I reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her.
“I asked you a fucking question.”
In a flash, Nora’s hands are around my throat and a ringing bounces around inside my skull as she shoves my back and head against the wall.
“And I’m not Aya yet,” she growls, pressing her body against mine—(I’m loving the shit out of this, so I let her)—“so you should probably mind that tongue of yours, or I will cut it out for you.”
I smile, trying to ignore that my breath is being cut off by her hand. She releases me slowly and takes a step back, but her dark eyes never leave mine, challenging me to piss her off some more, which I certainly intend to do later. The game is on, you crazy, beautiful bitch—and here I thought this game I’ll be playing with Francesca Moretti was going to be the most interesting thing about this mission.
Two hours later, the three of us are dressed and ready to head out. Miz Ghita insisted that a car pick us up at the hotel, which means that Miz Ghita can kill three birds with one stone: know the location of where we’re staying, control how and when we arrive and leave the Moretti estate, and leave us without our privacy to and from the estate because the car we’ll be chauffeured in will absolutely be bugged, and everything we say and do in it will be watched and recorded.
We slip into our roles the moment the door to our suite opens.
A black car picks us up in front of the hotel. I sit next to the window with Izabel next to me and Nora on the other side of her. There is only one other man in the car with us—the driver, who is probably more than just a driver.
Nora sits with her back straight, her eyes lowered, her hands folded delicately in her lap, her long, graceful fingers—minus the missing one I already have the perfect excuse for—partially hidden in the folds of the smooth fabric of her little dress. All of her makeup is gone—no crimson red lips or dark eyes—but she is quite stunning still. That’s what a buyer would want: a woman who is more beautiful without makeup, who is disciplined and frail and small. It kind of blows my mind, Nora’s transformation from manipulative, murderous banshee to a delicate, submissive little doe. She is good. I may not like her, but I have to admit she is good at what she does. And she was right—she’s a fast learner.
I also have to admit that Izabel seems more comfortable in her Naomi skin than I would’ve expected of her. She sits very close to me, her right thigh pressed against my left, and when she looks at me, with those glistening green eyes of hers, I don’t see a trace of Izabel in them. She is Naomi, my sweet and willing companion who would not hesitate to let me have my way with her even if I chose to do it in front of a dozen people—of course, I’d never do something like that to her, and she knows it. I could; oh, the things I could do to get back at my brother. I could take advantage of this situation in so many ways…
“Do I get to name her?” Izabel asks as Naomi in a sweet voice that takes me aback for a moment; she lays her head on my shoulder.
“I’ll think about it,” I say with no emotion, no expression on my face; I’m in my Niklas Augustin skin now.
I lay my hand on her thigh, pulling up her dress just a little, to see how she reacts. I expect to feel her tense beneath my palm. She surprises me when instead she smiles with a blush in her cheeks, and then touches the corner of my mouth with her lips once.
It takes me a moment longer than it should to shake off the stun—Izzy’s more into character than I am, I realize, and remedy it quickly first by erasing the emotionally confused look I know is on my face, and replacing it with the indifferent one.
I swallow, gathering my composure, and say, “What would you name her if I let you?”
She pretends to think about it for a moment, looking up in thought—I notice the driver’s eyes skirting us from the rearview mirror every few seconds.
“I like Lia, or perhaps Sia or Nai.”
She turn
s to Nora.
“Aya, what do you think?” she asks.
Nora doesn’t raise her head, doesn’t acknowledge Izabel’s question.
“Answer her,” I demand in a calm voice, giving her permission to speak.
Nora raises her eyes and looks at Izabel but never holds eye contact with her.
“Lia is very pretty,” Nora says, and looks back down into her lap.
Izabel turns back to me, bright-eyed and devastatingly believable.
“I said I’ll think about it,” I tell her, and then look down into my phone, pretending to be distracted by its contents.
Niklas
We pull up to the guarded front gates of Moretti’s mansion and another man steps out of a glass-and-stone booth to sign us in. There’s a gun at his hip; four other armed men stand in front of it. The man from the booth and the driver exchange words in Italian, and then signatures on a digital device. The man outside the car peers in at us in the backseat. I nod. He nods in return. And then he and the other men step out of the way of the car and the gates break apart soundlessly.
The Moretti estate is pretty much like I expected it to be, with rolling green grass and immaculate landscaping, stone and marble fountains on either side of the smooth driveway that extends in a perfectly straight line right up to the front of the five-story mansion many yards out ahead. Water, lit by golden lights, sprays from the top of the fountains. More golden lights are positioned along the driveway on either side, matching electric lanterns jutting from the grass every ten feet. The mansion itself is enormous, with six towering white pillars greeting us at the entrance, so tall and wide that I actually feel quite small walking beneath them. Izabel’s arm is looped through mine on my right; Nora on my left, eyes down as always.
I hear the car pull away behind us, and then the calming sound of a piano playing when the tall double doors are opened by two more armed men in front of us. We’re frisked for weapons and I’m forced to check mine in before going inside—they check the contents of my briefcase too, but all they find in it is cash.