— Mr. Fontana, good to see you again, please, have a seat. _The wretched pimp gestured for me to sit in the armchair across from her desk. — Should I call Lavínia?
I wait for her to sit and take my seat, unbuttoning two buttons of my shirt.
— No. I didn't come to see her. _I answer honestly.
Her gaze shows surprise.
— Did she cause any trouble at your house yesterday? _She asked, and I knew she was just looking for an excuse to punish her.
I shake my head.
— No. She was a good girl.
The old woman laughed.
— Have you noticed how she's changed over the past few months? She arrived here all shy and scared; now she's become the most talked-about and sought-after in the house. Lavínia's turned into a diamond in this brothel. Everyone wants to sleep with the Black Widow and lift her veil. _The wretch spoke with such pride it made me sick. This old hag's time is coming.
I clear my throat.
— That's what I came to talk about. _I say, trying to stay calm to not ruin my plans here today.
— Go ahead. _She encouraged, standing up to pour herself a whiskey and bringing me a glass.
I accept it.
— I don't want there to be a Black Widow or any damn veil anymore. _I drink the whiskey and slam the glass on the table.
The pimp sat back in her outdated whore's throne and had the audacity to pretend she didn't understand.
— Do you want us to change her stage name?
— No. I want you to take her picture off the website. I don't want Lavínia prostituting herself with any other man.
— I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Lavínia brings in the most profit. Without her in the catalog, I lose, the house loses, and she loses too. _She refused insolently.
I stand, walk around the desk, lean against it, hunch my shoulders, and grip the armrest of the chair where this wretch sits.
— I don't think you're understanding me. You, the house, and especially her—none of you will lose anything. _I explain.
— If she's not selling, there's no revenue.
— I want the Black Widow exclusively for me. I'll pay whatever it takes, as long as she doesn't work with any other man, only me.
The pimp's eyes lit up with dollar signs.
— Now I understand. _She laughed. — You know Lavínia's expensive, right? She's a high-class whore.
— Money's not an issue. _I let go of her chair and return to the armchair. — I'll pay whatever it takes; I just don't want her prostituting with anyone else.
— Only prostituting with you? _I nod, impassive, wanting to kill this old hag. Margaret took a deep breath, looked at me, stood, and extended her hand. — Deal closed.
— Listen well, I'll know if you don't keep the deal.
— If you're willing to pay whatever it takes, there's no reason she wouldn't be exclusively for your pleasure.
Satisfied with what I hear, I stand and firmly shake her hand.
Until I find the kid, I need to keep Lavínia out of everyone's crosshairs.
And to think this wretch considers me the worst man in the world.
I'm risking myself because I took pity on her story. No one deserves to be kidnapped and do what she does for the bare minimum… a call from her brother Faruk.
And she's so happy when she hears from him. Imagine when I bring him to her?
---
— Staying home today? _27 appeared at my office door.
I close the laptop and lean back in the armchair.
— My back's a mess. _I confess, grimacing.
— Let me see how bad it is. _He entered the office.
I stand and turn so he can see the cuts my lovely father made.
— It stopped bleeding. _I warn.
His hand touched my shoulder, and I heard him make a rough sound.
— This looks awful. _He said, observing the healing damage on my back. — Ever thought about a skin graft?
I turn, pushing him with my shoulders and leaving the office.
— Never thought about it, and I don't want to.
— Once it heals well, you could get a huge dragon tattoo on your back—it'd cover the cuts and make it look badass. _He suggested.
Out of the question.
— I don't like tattoos. _I reply, picking up the kitten I rescued, heading to the kitchen, filling its bowl with food and water, petting it, and setting it down to eat.
— You're gentler with that cat than with her. _He pointed out something he thought about me, concluded from that night in my room.
I look at him.
— I was gentle, yes. I gave her a choice, and she ran. In another time, I'd have fucked her anyway; with her, I'm even too patient. _I grab an apple, wash it, and bite into it.
— Do you feel guilty for hitting her when she touched you the first time you saw her? _I don't answer. — You're being patient because you're afraid of hurting her when you sleep with her again. _Noticing this, he was shocked. — That wouldn't be an issue if you tied her up.
— No way. _I say firmly.
— Then you should talk to her about your traumas.
— Lavínia already knows she can't touch me. _I declare.
— Did you tell her everything? _He raised an eyebrow.
— Why would I tell my story to an insignificant harlot? _I frown.
— First, you forbade us from killing her when it was our job to do so. Second, you ordered us to fill the brothel where she lives with cameras and bugs. Third, you're avoiding fucking her because you don't want to hurt her. _He counted on his fingers. — I liked her; she's curious, and despite the life she leads, seeing her smile is damn nice. I'd save her too, like you're doing.
— I need to save her from myself.
— When she finds out you were paid by her own father to kill her, that you used the clan's signature—our modus operandi—to kill the prostitute who gave her a hard time, that you killed one of her clients, and that you were willing to kill everyone who slept with her in that brothel because you can't stand them touching her. _Silence. I stay completely silent. — Yeah, my friend, you're the one who'll need saving from her. _He mocked.
I shrug.
— She already hates me, and I hate her. We might just end up killing each other then.
— Oh, you definitely hate each other. _He said sarcastically and went to drink water. Finally, he looked at me before leaving the kitchen. — No chance for a tattoo on that ruined back? I'd do it myself.
— No. _I reply impatiently.
— Then go fuck yourself.
---
I was reading when I heard a strange noise from downstairs. Quickly, I jumped out of bed, grabbed my gun from the bedside table, and left the room barefoot to see what the hell was going on.
I was completely confused when I saw my friends at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing tightly and looking down in disbelief.
One of the hitmen looked at me, laughed, and shook his head.
— What's going on? _I ask, worried.
They made space, and I stood between them, seeing the shitshow happening in my house. Everything was trashed.
— What did you do? _One of them asked, and I couldn't register who said it. I'm absorbed, incredulous, watching Lavínia in my house, furious and breaking everything.
How did she get in here?
I bet one of them let her in.
— She's not going to break the painting that cost millions… holy shit! She broke it. _1 showed pain as he watched Lavínia destroy the artwork we acquired at an auction. He even covered his face and crouched down.
It was inevitable—she looked up and saw me among them. Slowly, I hid my gun behind my back and let her, enraged, keep annihilating whatever she wanted. She was getting her revenge…
— Let her. _I say nonchalantly and turn, heading back to my room.
— Ângelo, those paintings are worth a fortune.
I glance to the side.
— I said don't interrupt her. And if any of you go down and touch her, you'll wake up with your mouth full of ants. Give the security team the same message. When she's done venting all her rage, she'll leave. _I walk off, enter my room, slam the door, throw myself on the bed, place my gun on the table, and press my pillow over my ears to block out the damn noise.
We knew the little owl with the pretty eyes wouldn't take it well when she found out I'm now her sole owner.