Three. Five. Six. Eight. Nine women who resemble one another so closely that they look like blood sisters, walk out among a smaller group of men in suits; their escorts for the evening, I’m guessing.
The group spreads out, six of them with a man on their arm, and they begin to mingle with the guests. Some wear skimpy cocktail dresses; jewelry decorates their wrists and fingers; they all look very much alike, but one woman in particular stands out from the others. There’s something about her that sets her apart from the rest: her chin raised higher, the gleam in her eyes more dramatic, even the way her escort walks alongside her—dark hair, sharp brown eyes—he appears proud, as if he has been given the most important assignment of his career. He keeps his head high when he walks with her on his arm, never looking anyone in the eyes, not because he’s a slave, but because he’s too pompous to spare the effort.
Miz Ghita makes her way over to the two, the ends of her black dress swishing about her legs, her flashy jewelry jangling.
“Not yet,” I tell Izabel without looking at her, pushing the words through my teeth like a ventriloquist. I tighten my arm around hers, stopping her.
You’re too eager, Izzy, just be patient, I want to say but don’t. I can’t—Miz Ghita is looking in our direction.
I nod at her from across the twenty-five foot space, and the woman with the flaunting male escort locks eyes with me briefly, just long enough to get my attention.
The three converse; first about us, I’m sure, and then the same amount of discreet attention is given to a few other guests standing about the room. I didn’t expect to be the only man in question here tonight, and I’m glad for that; not all of the suspicion will be on me.
Finally Miz Ghita, and the proudest woman among the nine with her even prouder escort, make their way over to us.
“Madam Francesca Moretti,” Miz Ghita introduces us, “meet Mr. Niklas Augustin. Mr. Augustin, this is Madam Francesca.”
‘Francesca’ looks at me with a powerful, self-important grace. She presents me her hand at the same moment I reach for it, and I bow slightly and graze the top of it with my lips.
“I appreciate the invitation to be here this evening, Miz Moretti,” I tell her, addressing her properly. “And on such short notice.”
“It is my pleasure,” Francesca, who I know is not the real Francesca, says and then adds, “Madam Ghita tells me that you are looking for something in particular, that you have special needs?” She tilts her head gently to one side, inquiringly.
I nod. “Yes,” I say, “but I would prefer to speak about it in private.” I glance around the room briefly and add, “When time permits, of course.”
“Of course,” she responds.
Miz Ghita cuts in, “After the Madam visits with the other guests, and after the showing, she will accommodate you the private meeting you paid for. Why don’t you introduce her to your companion.”
A small smile manipulates one corner of my mouth—they may be fooling every other guest in this mansion, but I’m not every other guest. They’re just oblivious men—and a few women—who are here for sex, and none of them have any clue about this woman being a decoy for the real madam. They probably couldn’t give a shit less anyway, because unlike me, they’re not technically here for Francesca Moretti.
I look to Izabel, and then back at the decoy.
“This is my girl, Naomi,” I answer, and Izabel bows her head slightly, offering the decoy a smile. “Kind of like your left-handed servant girl, Naomi is my favorite; no longer a slave, however. What about your favorites draws you to choose them?” It’s simple conversation, really, but an unanticipated enough question that only the real Francesca would be able to answer without hesitation.
The decoy’s eyes shift to look at Miz Ghita. She appears puzzled, as if she doesn’t know what to say, but this time it’s the male escort who cuts in, which surprises me.
“I am Emilio Moretti,” he introduces himself proudly in a thick Italian accent. “Francesca’s brother. What business did you say you were in, Mister…Augustin is it?” He cocks his head to one side, scrutinizing me under hard, dark eyebrows.
Ah, so that explains his untouchable character—he’s almost as high up on the food chain here as Miz Ghita. And although I don’t for a fucking second believe that this particular woman is Francesca Moretti, I do get the feeling that Emilio is who he says he is. After all, the decoy, who can only pretend to be Francesca so much, needs the aid of the real Francesca’s closest and most trusted advisors. And in the case of a prominent Italian family such as this one, there is no one closer and more trusted than other members of the family.
“I’m an investor,” I say. “Stock market, real estate—”
“So you flip houses,” Emilio cuts me off, pissing on his turf; a snide grin follows, suggesting that flipping houses is for paupers and peasants.