I turn from the double glass doors and look at them both. Izabel is dressed in a thin cream-colored dress that hangs just above her knees, pulled tight around her small waist by a thin black ribbon belt. She wears a pair of high-heeled cream shoes with a delicate strap over the top of her feet. Nora, needing to appear more my property than Izabel does, wears a simple slate gray dress, but is longer, stopping two inches below the knees and left to hang freely about her body; she wears flat-soled white shoes cut below her ankles. Their hair is pulled into tight ponytails at the back of their heads. Only Izabel wears jewelry and carries a small black purse. They’re both really fucking beautiful. It’s roles like these that make this job so worth it.
Pinching my mouth on one side as I look them up and down, I contemplate our next move.
“I say we dive right in,” I answer. “I think I’ve told you enough on the plane.”
“Then let’s do this,” Nora says.
I look to Izabel.
“I’ve been ready since yesterday,” she says with determination, confidence.
I just hope she’s not overconfident.
We spent a great deal of time on the flight going over every detail of the mission, every plan in case one plan goes to shit. I’m not worried about these people believing I am who I claim to be; my identity as Niklas Augustin was set firmly in place a year ago, ready and waiting for any given mission where the particular role would be needed. Having James Woodard, and other experts like him at our disposal, and having many ties outside of Victor’s Order, allows us to create believable identities with bogus lives dating as far back as we need them to. I have about thirty other firmly rooted identities at my disposal. But that doesn’t mean Francesca Moretti, or whoever she sends in her stead, will trust me by any means. I perfectly expect to have the distrust of everyone I might encounter involved with Moretti’s business.
Several hours later, I’m meeting with a woman known only as Miz Ghita, in a restaurant on the outskirts of the city center. It took some phone calls after getting the proper numbers from one of our few contacts inside Naples, but those calls led me to Miz Ghita, who, hopefully, will lead me to Francesca Moretti. We only have one shot at this. I’m confident in my ability to pull this off, but I don’t take for granted the rumors and warnings I’ve been given about getting past Miz Ghita, apparently a pit bull of woman, tough as nails.
Izabel and Nora accompany me, and it’s the part of this meeting that threatens my confidence the most—here comes Miz Ghita—I just hope Izabel can keep her mouth shut as promised.
I stand as any gentleman would as Miz Ghita approaches: my hands folded neatly down in front of me, my expensive Rolex on display, a single thick gold and diamond ring on my opposite ring finger; I raise my chin in a cultured fashion.
Izabel and Nora stand from their chairs.
Miz Ghita, a sixty-something woman of average height and build, with graying brown hair cut short underneath her ears decorated by gaudy earrings, nods at me as the waiter pulls out her chair for her. I sit down only after she does; Izabel and Nora, in that order, take their seats last.
“I appreciate you meeting with me,” I say.
“My time is valuable, Mr. Augustin—keep that in mind before you choose to waste any of it.” She brushes off the waiter’s attempt to take her drink order, and he bows and walks away. “Do you have a number?” She looks across the small table at me.
I nod.
“I do,” I say, reach into the pocket on the inside of my suit jacket and retrieve an envelope.
I place it on the table and slide it across the short distance to her. She takes it into her long knobby fingers covered by rings, and then she opens the flap, peering inside briefly at the money. Miz Ghita’s thoughts remain hidden, but the fact she doesn’t turn the offer down right away is enough proof of her approval. Twenty thousand American dollars just to meet with her is more than enough to show my financial worth. But proving I’m wealthy, and can afford the luxury of Moretti’s cyprians, is the easy part. Proving I’m not an undercover officer or government agent, or someone sent to kidnap or kill Francesca Moretti for, I don’t know, say, to appease an angry father, will be the challenging part.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on a mission like this—I hope like fuck I’m not too rusty.
“An investor,” Miz Ghita begins. “Apparently a man who takes risks—that’s all investing is, really: high stakes gambling.”
I smile.
“Oh, come on now, Miz Ghita,” I say, tilting my head, “you and I both know that what I do for a living has absolutely no bearing on whether or not we can come to an agreement—only my ability to pay for my purchase.”
She smirks, tilting her head to the side as well.
“I can think of a few professions that would certainly make a difference,” she says, referring to anyone who could potentially threaten their operations. But she and I both know that everyone from police officers to government officials and even men of a religious nature come to them for sex—she’s only testing me; she wants to see if I feel the need to defend myself; if my eyes stray as I try to explain that I’m perfectly trustworthy, because the eyes always stray when one is lying. Unless of course you’re someone whose mastered the art of lying, as I have. I never lie in everyday life—I’m as straightforward as they come—but when playing a role, I’m one lying bastard, and I’m damn good at it.
The dark confident smile never leaves my face.