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.