Page 55 of Dust to Dust

My mind struggled to break through the fog. I could hear the gentle clattering of what sounded like dishes. Soft murmurs filled the room where I was. All I remembered was driving towards the compound, and then…shit went sideways. My tires were blown, and my car spun. The door was ripped open before I could assess myself, and then darkness.

"Don't waste my time Nova," A voice said. The tone sounded refined and cultured. Like they had spent their childhood traveling to exotic places.

Finally, I was able to pry my eyelids open. Blinking away the blur, I tried to move, but my body was jolted by an electric shock that caused my jaw to lock.

"I'd suggest not to struggle." The voice purred.

Looking down, I was strapped to a chair. Thick iron cuffs captured each of my wrists. I lifted my arms again, only to feel the painful shock to my teeth.

The voice laughed, "They always do that."

I looked up. I was in a dining room. Red Damascus wallpaper lined the walls. A sparkling chandelier radiated rainbows of light off the dimly light room. Candles lined the long dark wooden table. The wax had dripped so long that it started covering the stands' silver bases. I was seated at one head, and across from me, down the long expanse that could easily sit twenty people, was no other than the man I came to kill.

Franco Fontaine.

Franco continued to eat as I sat chained to the chair, so I took a moment to study him. He held his fork and knife like an orchestra conductor waving a wand. His movements, from moving his arms to swallowing a bite of food, were like a choreographed production.

Franco flipped his eyes up. They were a deep chocolate brown that looked like melting chocolate as the candlelight bounced off them. The shade matched his shortly-trimmed hair. A clean-shaven square jaw and perfectly shaped eyebrows would make a makeup artist proud. He was a metrosexual at his finest. Clean and meticulous.

His suit was made of wool in a navy color, a matching blue dress shirt that had tiny yellow pinstripes. The fabric was free of a wrinkle. His tie was a deep maroon that matched a cute little silk pocket square folded into three triangular peaks that stuck out. It was an eccentric style none usually worn by a man his age. I much preferred Titan’s cargo pants and tight t-shirts to this prissy excuse for a man.

Franco set his fork down, and on cue, a waiter dressed in a traditional black tie uniform entered the room. He cleared the plate and started to walk back to the door. In a swift movement, like a figure skater performing a skilled jump, Franco pulled out a gun and shot the server in the head. Blood splattered, and dishes broke as the dead man fell. I jerked, which Franco noted.

"Scared?" He purred as he set the gun down.

"Death doesn't scare me."

"That's what they all say."

"That's what they all say." I mimicked.

He narrowed his eyes, so I copied him again. He licked his lips, and then I did the same.

"You don't like your reflection, do you." I joked.

"I like it very much." He sneered.

I looked over his face, "Not that reflection." I corrected him, which he didn't like either. "The little boy on the inside." I provoked.

He studied me for a moment before he picked up a polished silver bell and rang it. A second server came into the room. Without looking at his dead companion, he side-stepped the body, avoiding the pooling blood, and served Franco his main course. A steak with asparagus drizzled and a thick gravy sauce.

"That sauce is going to go straight to your hips," I said. Breaking the silence.

Franco paused his fork and knife, then resumed slowly cutting into the steak as if he was performing an autopsy. He made uniform one-inch cuts,

"It's rude not to offer your guest food or beverage." I provoked. I eyed the cuffs. They were too tight to slip my hands out, and I didn't want to risk being shocked again.

"But are you," Franco paused, "a guest?"

I cocked my head to the side, "I don't know, am I?"

He changed subjects. He wanted to prove he was in control, so I went with the punches this time. "You're hair is different." He knew who I was. This was good.

"Which do you prefer?" I cocked my head. I needed to show Franco I wasn't weak even if I was trapped. This angel had claws.

Franco looked long at me as if I was a fine piece of art.

I was.

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