I wonder what Nora’s thinking.
Nora
Now we’re getting somewhere! Oh God, I was starting to go out of my mind playing this pathetic obedient doormat. But now things are looking up. And it’s about damn time Niklas called her out. I’m just glad he picked the right woman. I was beginning to wonder.
Now I only wonder if Niklas and Izabel know what they’ve gotten themselves into. That woman may look frail in that pretty little slave dress; her unpainted features may appear gentle and flawless and kind even, but she’s anything but kind—a demon lives underneath that flesh. I’ve seen people like her, faced and killed people like her, and they excite me; they make my job that much more interesting, more dangerous, and I live for these types of jobs. Well…in a different role, of course.
Niklas
Francesca slowly lowers her arm back at her side. Quietly she takes a few steps forward—Emilio, the fake Francesca and Miz Ghita move backward to clear her way, and undoubtedly to stay out of arm’s reach. The four men with guns bow low at the waist and hold the position. I stay right where I’m at, bold and undaunted in her authoritarian presence. Neither Augustin nor Fleischer would lower himself to that shit; I don’t care if she’s a murderous nutcase—but I have to keep playing the Augustin role, pretending she and I are one in the same: two sadistic peas in a pod.
Francesca looks right at me; she never blinks; she’s so fucking calm and calculated that I find myself stumbling through my thoughts, but I easily retain confidence and power on my face.
“You intrigue me, Mr. Augustin.” Her voice is red wine laced with arsenic; her dark eyes are endless pools of malevolence and beauty—you want to look away, but you can’t.
“Call me Niklas,” I say smoothly; I reach out and take her hand, bending to kiss the top of it.
“It would please me, Niklas, to have a private meeting with you.” She turns only her head to look at the fake Francesca and she says, “Give me your dress, Bianca.”
“Yes, Sister,” the one whose name is actually Bianca says.
Bianca scurries over to Francesca quickly, strips off her cream-white lacy dress and rests it over her forearm until Francesca is ready to take it from her. She waits, naked, with only a string of pearls around her neck, dipping between her tits.
Francesca hasn’t for a second taken her eyes off me.
She clasps her fingers around the hem of her servant’s dress and lifts the fabric over her head, dropping it on the floor afterward. Francesca is without a doubt, unlike any woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the power she possesses, I don’t know, but she’s goddamn beautiful. It’s just too bad she’s likely a homicidal waste of air who needs to be put down.
Niklas
After sliding the dress over her naked form, Francesca says, “I want everyone to leave except for Niklas and his girls.”
“But Francesca—” Miz Ghita tries to say, stepping up.
“I said leave.”
“Very well.” Miz Ghita turns on her heels.
As she and the nameless decoy make their way out behind the four gunmen, the real Bianca starts to follow with the servant girl behind her. Emilio steps in front of Bianca and speaks angrily to her in Italian. I may not be able to understand the language, but I don’t need to to gather they’re arguing about Bianca humiliating Emilio in her role. Then Bianca hits the floor—Emilio’s hand had shot out so fast I hardly saw it before it made contact with the side of her face. Sitting on the floor with her legs bent beneath her, Bianca holds a hand over her cheek; there’s murder in her eyes.
Bianca scrambles to get to her feet, her tits bouncing all over the place, and she rushes Emilio from behind. He turns at the last moment and stops her cold, his hand wrapped about her throat.
“Dear Brother,” Francesca calls out, and Emilio turns around to face her. “Prepare my room.”
Emilio shoves Bianca backward, releasing her.
Bianca leaves shortly afterward, naked and wearing only a pearl necklace and a pair of high heels. The sound of the doors closing behind her echoes throughout the spacious room.
“Before we go any further,” Francesca says; her cold eyes sweep over Izabel, “there is a bit of a problem that will be remedied, or there will be no meeting.”
“What problem?” I ask.
Francesca slithers over to the desk and opens one of the drawers. No sound is heard as she moves her hand through its contents and then retrieves a long silver knife. She moves toward Izabel.
Oh shit…