Izabel

The footsteps carrying through the hallway are faint as guests walk back and forth every so often. Tall heels. Tasteful dress shoes. Rich voices pretending to be intrigued, overdramatizing the insignificant things in life. Artificial laughter. Classical music—Bach, I believe—plays downstairs, so crisp and elegant and distinguished that it makes me feel like I’m attending a party for the Queen of England rather than sitting patiently in a dark room with my favorite knife in hand. I call her Pearl.

This room smells no different than it did the last time I was here, like too much cologne and sweat and stale potpourri and dryer sheets. A heavy, square marble table sits across the room. I remember that table. I will never forget the way Victor bent me over it, or the disgusting pig who watched as my panties pooled around my ankles.

It’s dark outside, just after nine o’clock, and the moonlight bathes much of the room from the walk-out balcony behind me. I’ve made sure to leave it open so that I can feel the night air on my skin. It’s incredibly warm in these tight clothes. Black from the neck down. Boots dress my feet, much like what Niklas prefers to wear except mine have daggers sheathed within the leather. A gun is holstered to my hip, but it’s only there in case I need it. I like my knife.

I sit in a chair near the center of the spacious room, just out of the soft gray light pouring in from the balcony. My right leg is crossed over the left. My hands rest carefully within my lap, the pearl handle of my knife fitted firmly in my fist. I tap the thin silver blade against my thigh.

Twenty-six minutes have passed since I sat down. But I’m patient. I’m disciplined. As much as I can be, I suppose. I promised Victor that I’d wait. That I’d sit here just like this, practically unmoving, until it was time. I said that I could do it, that I could get through it without marching my way downstairs and taking care of business there. I intend to prove it. Though, I admit it’s hard.

I glance over at Niklas standing in a dark shadow near the balcony doors with his hands folded together down in front of him. He’s grinning at me, taking pleasure in my growing frustration. I smirk back at him and look toward the bedroom door across the room.

Thirty-two minutes.

I hear the voices of the two guards always stationed outside of the room. They’re talking to Arthur Hamburg.

Seconds later, the door opens and a blast of light from the hallway shines into the room. But it doesn’t touch me. And just as quickly, the light is shut out as the guard closes the door after Hamburg steps inside. He doesn’t notice me when he walks past the large bed and then the marble table.

“What do you think of the hair?” I ask.

Hamburg stops cold in his tracks.

I lean over forward in the chair, pushing myself into the path of light.

“Jet black,” I say so casually. “Do you still think I’m stunning no matter what kind of wig I wear?” I reach up with my free hand and touch the short cut carefully to show it off.

The overhead lights in the room come on when Hamburg says, Lights on.

“How did you get in here?” he asks desperately, his gaze bouncing about the room, looking for the answer and for signs of anyone else.

When he notices Niklas and Victor both standing near the balcony entrance behind me, guns in their hands down at their sides, he starts to call out to his guards. But then a loud thud sounds just outside the door. And then another. Hamburg stops feet in front of the door, no longer sure it’s safe to open it.

He looks back at me.

I smile and tap the blade against my leg some more.

The door behind him opens and Fredrik is standing there with two white collars clenched in his hands. He drags the bodies of the guards across the marble floor, releases his grip and their heads hit the marble with a thump.

Hamburg stares at Fredrik, wide-eyed like a fish, his overweight body frozen in the same spot, his sausage-like fingers barely moving against his slacks, nervously, as if he’s absently searching for a weapon that he normally keeps on him and he doesn’t want to believe that it’s not there when he needs it most.

Fredrik shuts the door and locks it. He walks back over to the bodies, taking them up by the collars again and dragging them across the room. There’s no sign of blood on them. He must’ve used his weapon of choice, a needle filled with something deadly and untraceable.

I look at Hamburg.

“Y-Yes…the black looks good on you,” he says uneasily. “W-Why are you here? Willem is missing. I-I don’t know where he is. I swear. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a week.”

I smile and tilt my head to one side. “That’s because he’s dead,” I say matter-of-factly.

Hamburg looks behind me at Victor. And then at Niklas. And then back at Victor again.

“Look, I-I told him to leave it alone,” he continues to stutter. “I didn’t send him. I-I specifically told him not to look for either of you.”

Sweat beads from his chubby face, glistening on his double-chin. The armpits of his white dress shirt are wet with stains, the moisture spreading quickly across the fabric. The collar of his shirt changes color as it soaks up the moisture like a cheap paper towel.

I stand up. “You’re a liar.” I walk slowly towards him. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not here because of Willem Stephens. I’m here because of you.”

Hamburg takes the same amount of steps backward that I take toward him, his bloated, wrinkled face twisted by trepidation, his thick hands feeling behind him for a door or a wall.

Fredrik steps in front of the door, blocking Hamburg’s path and Hamburg stops. I watch as his throat moves when he swallows. Fear is ever-growing in his eyes.

He keeps looking behind me at Victor and Niklas, always focusing his attention on Victor last.

Victor steps away from the balcony door and stands beside me.

“Look, I held true to my word, goddammit!” Hamburg shouts, the lines around his eyes deepening. He points his fat finger at us, dressed in a thick gold ring. “I never went looking for either one of you after you killed my wife! I kept my word!” He points directly at me. “You were the one who came looking for me! Y-You started all of this!”

I shake my head, smiling across at him, at how desperate and afraid he is. It alone gives me some satisfaction, seeing him squirm, the way he’s begging for his life without outright begging.

I step a little closer.

Hamburg doesn’t move because he can’t. Fredrik is behind him.

“Oh, this has nothing to do with me,” Victor says to Hamburg. “I kept my word. I never came after you. But Izabel, on the other hand,” Victor taunts in his trademark casual manner, “well, you didn’t make any deals with her, unfortunately for you. And I don’t own her. I never did. She’s here of her own accord and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Hamburg looks right at me, the anger shifting in his face to something more pathetic.

“P-Please…I’ll do whatever you want,” he begs, “give you anything you want. My money. My house. Just ask and it’s yours. I’m worth millions.”

I step right up to him and I can smell the stench of his sweat. He stares into my eyes underneath a shrinking gaze, one filled with hatred and horror. His large frame trembles inches from me and I know that if he thought he could get away with it, he’d grab me right now and choke me to death.

Suddenly, his expression changes to better fit his scathing words. “You won’t do it,” he taunts, sneering coldly as he looks straight into my face. “You don’t have it in you, to kill in cold blood. You killed my guard out of self-defense. You won’t kill me. Not like this.” There’s humor in his eyes.