She laughs. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she snaps back, trying to free her other wrist from my hand. “You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Not really, no.” I press myself against her, letting her feel it, and I tug on her bottom lip with my teeth again. She tries to slap me away, but I just smile and grind against her harder. “But I really just want to put my cock in you—I’ve had a really stressful day, and it’s how I like to wind down. You’ll like it, I promise.” Then I reach down with my free hand and open my dress pants, sliding them over my ass just enough so I can…work.
Nora tries to kick me off her—(come on, babe, I know you’re stronger than that)—but I hold her down without difficulty.
“Get off me, or I’ll fucking kill you, Niklas.”
“You can kill me after,” I tell her casually, stroking myself. “If you’ll still want to by then.”
I shove my cock deep inside of her, and feisty badass Nora Kessler becomes putty in my hands; she gasps, forcing her head back against the floor; the whites of her eyes rolling into view before her eyelids slam shut over them, and she lets out a small cry; her tits heaving; her back arched.
“All right,” I whisper onto her mouth, and start to pull out of her, “maybe I am going about making it up to you the wrong way.”
Her thighs crush me, forcing me to stop. She looks up into my eyes, gritting her teeth. “I’ll kill you,” she says, “if you don’t fuck me.”
I grin. And get to work.
Izabel
I lie on the bed next to Sian, and for a long time I watch her, thinking about what she went through, what she’ll still be going through tomorrow. We’re the same people lying in this bed together, two women whose lives were stripped from them, whose babies were taken from our arms at the moment of birth.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” I whisper, though I know she can’t hear me.
I’m trying hard to block out the whimpers and moans and the sound of the bed in the main room slamming against the wall, but it’s not so easy to do. At least Nora got what she wanted. I’m not sure why it bothers me; maybe it’s because I know Nora isn’t good for Niklas. Or Fredrik. Or anyone I care about, really. I like her, but she’s dangerous, and I just hope Niklas is careful. We may not get along but…well, I’ll kill Nora before she kills him.
I don’t remember falling asleep, and I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but when I open my eyes I feel like it’s morning even though I’m in a room with no windows and the door is shut. And I’m pissed. We were supposed to go over a plan to kidnap Francesca today, but it seems Niklas and Nora spent the night fucking each other instead.
Crawling out of the bed carefully so I don’t wake Sian—what the hell did Niklas give her?—I leave the room and head into the main room to find Nora sitting on the bed with her back pressed against the headboard; the television remote is in her hand and she’s flipping through channels. She’s wearing nothing but a tank-top and a pair of panties.
“Finally up,” she says when she sees me. “You were dead to the world last night.”
“That’s not a reason not to wake me up when you two were done…being really loud.”
Nora smiles and goes back to flipping channels.
“Where’s Niklas?”
“He’s taking a piss.” She looks at the bathroom door, then at me, as if making sure Niklas can’t hear what she’s about to say. A grin slips up on her mouth. “He—”
“I really don’t want to know,” I interrupt, putting up my hand.
Nora smiles and goes back to flipping channels.
I go outside on the balcony.
Niklas
Izabel is sitting on the balcony when I come out of the restroom in my boxers. I pass Nora up, going through the main room with the giant bed—she was a good fuck; not sure if I’ll ever do it again, but never say never.
I join Izzy outside.
“Niklas,” she says once I sit down in the wrought iron chair across from her; a matching table separates us. “I know you’re not one for talk, but I wanted to ask you something personal.”
I slide my elbows back on the chair arms, hook my fingers over my lap and stretch my legs out comfortably. I feel a pang of guilt all of a sudden, but I ignore it.
“No, I’m not one for talk,” I say, “but what do you want to know? Unless it’s about”—I point with my thumb toward the suite, indicating Nora—“anything that happened with her last night.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not about that,” she says, and that pang of guilt from before turns into disappointment—why, I have no clue, but I don’t like it.
I feel her eyes want to look at me, but she keeps facing forward, looking out at the hundreds of rooftops dotting the city below. I get the sense that this is serious.
“Have you…well, I was just wondering if you, or anyone else in our Order—even anyone you knew when you and Victor were under Vonnegut—has ever had to worry about…pregnancies…or dealing with children?”
I find myself stunned—where the fuck did this come from?
“Don’t tell me you’re pregnant, Izzy, that would be the same thing as pissing in my Cheerios.”
Izabel looks over sharply. “No!” she says quickly, as if the longer I believe that the more chance it might be true. “No, I’m definitely not pregnant”—she looks offended; I laugh inside—“I was thinking about it because…of Sian. When I was in the compound, girls got pregnant all the time.”
“What’s that got to do with me or anyone else in our Order? Victor is who you’re really asking about though, right?”
The glare in her eyes answers the question before her words do. She swallows nervously and looks back out at the city.
“Don’t make this something it’s not,” she scolds me. “It’s a legitimate concern, considering our line of work—what happens if someone gets pregnant? How would Victor—or even you—deal with pregnancies?”
I can’t shake the feeling that Izabel asking about this sort of thing, has more significance than what she’s letting on. But whatever—I don’t care to probe further into that head of hers. OK, maybe I care to probe a little—all right, all right, I care to probe a lot. But I’m not going to. Not my fucking business.
“You and James Woodard,” I begin, “are two of few who haven’t been…fixed.” I can’t help but laugh when Izzy looks over at me with disgust, her eyebrows tight in her forehead—she looks offended, which is what I was shooting for.
“We’re not animals,” she says. “We don’t get fixed—are you calling me a dog?”
No, Izzy, you’re certainly no dog…
I laugh again, letting my head fall back. Then I look at her and say, “We’re all fucking animals, especially that adopted brother of yours you have such a soft spot for.”
“Fredrik’s not an animal, Niklas,” she defends, disappointment in her voice. “But you shouldn’t judge—you’re not so human yourself.”
“I admit I’m an animal,” I say. “And if you were ever to ask Gustavsson yourself, he’d admit the same thing—anyway, to answer your strange question: selling babies isn’t our style; Victor may be a cold-blooded, murdering bastard”—I couldn’t resist—“but he’d never resort to something like that.”
“Then what would he do?” She looks right at me—what is that in her eyes? Fear? Hope? A little bit of both? Damn, it’s killing me not to probe. She’s hiding something—but what?
“For starters,” I say, pointing my index finger up briefly, “Victor, as you know, is all about prevention, first and foremost. Most in our Order who haven’t already been sterilized, it’s mandatory that they become sterilized. The exceptions being people like Woodard who already have families, or members who might benefit the Order in some way by getting knocked up.”
By that shocked look on Izabel’s face, it’s obvious my dear brother hadn’t gotten around to telling her this part yet. I smile thinking to myself, rubbing my hands to
gether metaphorically in my mind, excited about being the one to break the news—any little thing I can do to make my brother’s life more difficult, I’m going to take it.
“Benefit our Order by getting knocked up?” She appears confused, maybe wanting to have heard me wrong.
I nod, smiling, and then light up a cigarette.
“Sometimes operatives who work on the inside,” I begin, “as you know already, have to play their roles one hundred percent, that includes starting families and blending in with white-picket-fence societies. An operative I worked with under Vonnegut has been married to a woman undercover for fifteen years, had six kids with her before I left The Order.”
Izabel shakes her head with disbelief.
“How is that an undercover mission?” she asks. “After fifteen years and a family, how is it still a mission? I’d think by then it was something very different.”
“To some, sure,” I say, nodding, puffing on my cigarette. “And that operative I’m sure loves the kids he made with his wife—maybe he even loves his wife—but a good operative, like Victor for example, can still draw the line even after fifteen years of marriage; he’ll still be able to do what has to be done when and if that time comes.”
“What are you trying to say, Niklas?” She glares at me.
I’m trying to tell you, Izzy, without outright telling you, that my brother may love you, but he will always be Victor Faust, that sometime now or later, he’s going to realize that you’re just another Claire.
“I’m trying to tell you,” I say out loud, “that there is no place for children in our world. Never has been and never will be. And if an operative gets knocked up, or knocks a woman up, that operative will have to be dealt with in whatever way Victor sees fit; in some cases, he might cut the operative loose, give him a free pass to live his life, but you can bet your ass he or she’d be watched until the day they die.”
“And in other cases?” she asks.
I shrug, pause, and then answer, “Let’s just say that just about everyone gets fixed, Izzy.”
She looks right at me.
“Except for me,” she says, searching my face for the answers, some kind of understanding that maybe only I can give her. “Why do you think Victor hasn’t pressured me about sterilization?”
“Well, for one thing,” I say, “he’s not worried about you getting pregnant because he can’t get you pregnant.”
“And for another thing?”
She waits.
But I find myself at a loss for words—I never expected to be slapped in the face by this, of all things. Why hasn’t my brother not only pressured but ordered her to be sterilized? It’s very out of character for him, so unlike Victor that I don’t think I’ve ever been as confused as I am right now.
“Niklas?”
I snap out of it and look over at Izzy.
“Like I said, he can’t knock you up so there’s no reason to worry about it.” Setting my cigarette in the ashtray on the table between us, I lean toward her. “Why are you asking me this stuff, anyway? And don’t say you were just curious. There’s more to it than that; it’s all over your face.”
Izabel
I didn’t ask Niklas about pregnancies and children because I was worried about getting knocked up on a mission, not even the Mexico mission. I will never be raped again, that is a fucking certainty; I will kill any man who ever tries to have his way with me. But that’s not what my question was about—I was only thinking about my child with Javier; thinking about it now more than I ever have since I’m not the only person in our Order anymore who knows about him or her.
And I never would’ve asked Niklas, of all people, about any of this stuff if it weren’t for the fact that he’s Victor’s brother and knows him better than anyone. But it doesn’t come without guilt—it should be Victor I’m asking these kinds of questions, not his brother. But I can never tell Victor the truth. I don’t know why, and that bothers me immensely…I just know that I can’t.
Niklas
Izabel looks away from my eyes, shrugs her shoulders; just like me, she’s covering up the true weight of her answer. “But that is the only reason”—(liar)—“I guess going on missions like these, and the one I’ll be going on in Mexico with Nora in a few months, they make me think about stuff like this.”
Ah, so therein lies the truth—Izzy worries, probably thinks about it all the time, what would happen to her if she managed to get herself raped on one of these missions, especially these missions.
I would never let that happen…
“No one’s going to fucking touch you, Izzy,” I say, looking right at her; she keeps her gaze fixed out ahead at the rooftops. “That’s why Victor sent me here with you, because he knows nothing like that will happen to you with me at your side.” I pause, searching her face for something still hidden and then add, “But it’s not this mission you’re worried about, is it?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Y’know,” I say, looking out at the rooftops with her, “if I had any say in it, you wouldn’t be allowed to go to Mexico.”
She looks over quickly, defensively, her lips taut.
“Then it’s a good thing you have no say in it,” she snaps.
“Hey, I understand why you want to be a part of it, but it’s the last place in the world you should be going.”
“We’ve already had this argument,” she points out. “Why do you care, anyway, what I do or where I go?”
“I don’t,” I tell her instantly, crush my cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Sounds to me like,” Nora speaks up from behind, “we just need to get Izabel fixed and get it over with.”
I really hate that woman—just because I fucked her doesn’t change that.
I look over my shoulder to see Nora standing underneath the balcony entrance, her arms crossed.
She smirks at me.
“Hey, that’s up to Izzy,” I say, indifferent.
There’s a crash! inside the suite, and the three of us take off running through the balcony doors. Sian is picking herself up off the floor next to a toppled lamp when we find her.
“Get away from me!” she cries, putting up one hand to us while trying to steady her weight on the floor with the other. “Get away! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!”
Izzy rushes to Sian’s side and embraces her, covering her mouth with her hand. Sian tries to fight her off, but she’s still too weak to do anything more than struggle; the drug I gave her last night still working its way out of her system.
“No one’s going to hurt you,” Izzy says, rocking her, trying to soothe her. “I promise—we’re here to help you. If I take my hand away from your mouth, please don’t scream.”
After a moment, Sian nods, but the look in her red-rimmed eyes conveys anything but trust.
Izabel slowly removes her hand, but she keeps her other arm around Sian’s waist from behind.
“Where’s my baby?” she cries softly. “Please, you have to let me go.”
“Niklas,” Izzy says, looking up at me, needing me to step in.
With a sigh, I move toward them, and the closer I get, the more Sian recoils away from me and into Izabel’s arms. I crouch in front of her, but keep a one-foot distance so she doesn’t feel anymore threatened by me than she is.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “but there’s nothing I can do to help you get your kid back; it would’ve been too suspicious and none of us would’ve made it out of that place alive.”
“That bitch is crazy! You have to go back for my baby! And Emilio!”
Shaking my head with disbelief I say, “Emilio? You still want him even though you’re free? Are you sick?”
“I love him,” she says, resentment rising up in her voice. “He loves me. And who are you? Why are you saying these things to me? Why do you have me here?” Then she starts to cry and struggle against Izabel again. “She sent you to test me, didn’t she?”—She’s hysterical—“She’ll kill Emilio! No,
what I said was a lie! He doesn’t love me! I swear it!”
“Calm down, Sian,” Izabel tells her, squeezing her, holding down her arms. “We’re not here to trick you; we’re gonna set you free, but you can’t go back to that mansion for your baby. Or for Emilio. If you go back—if you stay in Italy—they’ll find you and Francesca will definitely kill you.”
“Who are you?” she cries.
Pushing myself into a stand, I grab the back of a nearby chair and pull it over in front of them, sitting down.
“I can’t tell you who we are,” I say, “but you’re going to tell me something.”
“W-What do you want to know?”
I lean forward, resting my arms on my legs.
“I’m looking for a girl,” I begin, “a particular girl who I know isn’t anywhere in the mansion—she’s probably one of Madam Moretti’s cyprians. Where are her cyprians?”
Sian’s eyes dart between me and Nora standing behind me. She’s unsure about saying anything, but she’s beginning to trust us.
“The cyprians live all over the city,” she says. “They have their own homes; the Morettis don’t even have to watch them much, not like the girls in the mansion. They’re loyal to that insane woman; they’re set up with everything they need: clothes, medical care, food—who would want to run away or report the Morettis to the police? They live better than most people. And they’re protected.” She shakes her head, looks at the floor. “I wanted to be a cyprian”—her head shoots back up—“not because of the sex or the money, but because it was my way out. It was my and Emilio’s plan: he would work on his sister to get her to release me into service—to be a cyprian—sooner than normal, and then after I was in my own house, we would make a run for it.”