“And how did you do that, exactly?”
I smile, close-lipped. “Are we really here to talk about how resourceful I can be, or shouldn’t we get on with why I came?”
After a few silent seconds Francesca moves the rest of the way over to Nora, circling her in slow, small steps, knife still in her left hand.
“No, Mr. Augustin—”
“Niklas.”
“Niklas”—she smiles darkly—“I think I’ll have you tell me how you knew; like I said, I still do not trust you, and you will answer my questions.” Her eyes narrow. “Resourceful you certainly are, but also very observant. You knew who my mother was; you knew who I was—no one has ever done that, or cared to do it. Frankly, Niklas, I don’t know whether to admire your skill, or to be even more suspicious of it. The men who come here only ever have one thing on their minds and it rarely has anything to do with me. You’ve done well to put a red flag on your back. So tell me—how did you know?” She puts the blade to Nora’s throat casually as if she were about to spread butter on her toast, and she looks across the short space at me, waiting with an eerie patience.
Retaining my undaunted smile, I give in with an impassive sigh. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll tell you.” I turn my back to her, my way of showing her that I’m not at all concerned about what she might do to Nora, and then I make my way back over to Izabel. I sit down on the oversized chair and lean back comfortably; Izabel remains seated on the edge.
“First you should know why I’m so observant,” I begin. “Just like you, I don’t trust anybody—for all I know you could be undercover. Call me paranoid if you want, but I’ve been busted before, I’ve been in prison before, and I don’t plan on going back to that fucking place, so I make it a point to know who I’m dealing with. In fact, I’ve been this way for a long time, always looking over my shoulder—my own brother betrayed me, so surely you can understand why I’m more…perceptive than the rest of the buyers who come here. And I don’t like to be lied to. I knew Bianca wasn’t really you the second she hesitated to tell me what she liked most about her favorite girls.” I smirk. “You wouldn’t have hesitated, or looked at your mother for the answer; your brother wouldn’t have had to jump in and try to distract me.”
“Yes, Emilio is a devoted brother,” Francesca says with an exasperated sigh. “Overprotective of me to a fault, I admit. But he is a good brother. I trust him more than anyone in my family—I only trust him. But go on and tell me how you knew.”
She’s thrown me off my game a bit, but she’s oblivious to it. Emilio a devoted brother? Emilio overprotective of his superior sister to a fault? Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought. That’s unfortunate.
“It’s simple really,” I say, snapping back into the moment. “I didn’t know anything about the showings until I came here tonight. I’d always known you employed the most prized whores that money can buy. And I wanted one for myself. Not just for a night or a few days. I wanted one and I was confident you’d sell one to me.”
“I see.” Francesca takes the knife away from Nora’s throat and then leaves her standing there as she paces the floor, sliding the flat sides of the tip of the blade between her fingers absently. “Only I never sell my cyprians. They are, in a sense, free women and men. They work for me and are paid generously. I sell their services, not their freedom.”
“You don’t sell them,” I point out, “because they’re whores, and buyers aren’t looking for tainted whores, unless the buyer is like me. Tell me they’d still be free to live their lives if they were still worth selling.”
She smiles darkly right back at me, and it’s the only answer we both know she needs to give.
“Every man,” I go on, “has a preference—mine happens to be whores—and physical flaws, of course.” I look at Nora, indicating her. “Aya worked for an escort service before she became mine.” I glance at Izabel. “Naomi here,” I say, reaching out to touch her butchered hair, combing my fingers through the back, “started selling herself at a young age; I was her last customer; I took her from the streets and then she was nobody’s whore but mine.” I pause and then add as an afterthought, “Of course she grew on me more than I expected or wanted.”
“You love that one.”
Stunned, my hand stops moving in Izabel’s hair; for a second I’m not sure what to say in response.
“No,” I finally answer, confused by my hesitation, and drop my hand from her hair. I look at Francesca. “I don’t love anyone. But I’m fond of her. Haven’t you ever been fond of someone—aside from your brother, I mean.” I grin. And I hope my attempt to take the spotlight off me works because this shit with Izabel is making me uncomfortable.