IX.

G O O D  M A N N E R S

—aka, even good bitches have bad days,

INT— A BALCONY.

VENICE, ITALY — MIDNIGHT.

SCENE I.

THE SMILE THAT came out was natural. This one was honest, involuntary. I really did like KC. Despite the roiling anger simmered down only by the thirst to get even, there was guilt.

I swirled the glass again, trying to distract myself and put external focus on the drink itself. The movement should catch his attention. Snipers should be wary of every little movement through yards away. I was barely a few steps and the object of his mission.

I do wonder if my outfit was doing anything to him.

"And I don't think you should be here either," I teased, calming myself by breathing in the canals of Venice. There's an undertone of vegetation and rot to the mixture of ruin and freshwater, but it's enough distraction to calm down. "Aren't you supposed to be a ranged attacker?"

His steps were more audible now, but this was deliberate. He wanted me to know where he was. I wonder if he knew that I noticed. I wonder if he thought I was as naive as Archie made me out to be.

I wonder how fast the pills will kick in.

I don't really drink them myself. They're more for emergencies.

The world can say a lot of things about me— and oh, do I bet I'm in a couple of people's personal hit lists, but I've never done nor abused drugs. Apart from the occasional migraine I might need to pop in a pill for, my bloodstream's cleaner than a woman destined for the nunnery.

They were just a woman's most classic exit strategy.

"I shouldn't," he agreed, voice just as light but there was an underlying tense there. Undercut with wary warning. "But you're here, doll, when you shouldn't be. Why don't we get you inside?"

Instead of doing that, irked by the choice of words and tone used, I hummed and patted the ledge next to me with a pretty smile. "C'mere, pal. Have a sip. I swiped Kristoff's favourite malt."

"I saw," he said, amused. It took him a full two seconds before he complied, settling on his elbows beside me with a light groan. It's hard to determine if he was actually enticed or just exhausted. As my eyes wandered over his windswept hair and light eyes tinged red with darker shadows underneath them, I gathered both.

I offered the glass like a respite. An offer of paradise through taste. "You look tired."

"I really shouldn't."

"Are you a lightweight?"

He looked mildly offended. "No, but I'm on the clock. I'm not getting paid to drink my boss' swiped whiskey with his girlfriend, much as that job sounds amazing."

"Sure you can," I teased. "And I'm not his girlfriend."

"For now, you are. And I'm supposed to protect you like one."

I wanted to snort. That's a lie. You're protecting me as a secondary thought. You're protecting Kristoff and his interests. You'll kill me if you need to.

I had to bit through that one. I needed to calm down or my real emotions would pop out from underneath me.

"I know. And I am glad you're watching over me but—" I watched as he took the glass from me, a sip, hummed from the taste, and took another. "— But. It's a little unnerving. I'm not used to someone watching me sleep."

He chuckled, voice rasped. "Never bedded a creeper before?"

I smirked. "I tend to shake 'em off after I'm done getting their valuables. And the furthest they could ever get from me is being able to enter the room."

"You jump from the balcony?"

"Bathroom windows work too." He laughed, drinking more and drinking deep. I smiled at him through a chin on my palm and an adoring gaze. "I really do like you, you know."

"I—" He blinked, pausing to yawn. "Sorry. I like you too, Nina doll. I think you're a firecracker."

"And I think you're a firework."

He laughed, then turned serious. "We really should get you inside. It's not safe out in the open. Plus, it's cold."

"Alright, alright." I nodded to the drink in his hand, about two inches left on the glass. "You can have the rest of that that."

He had the good graces to be apologetic before he finished it off. "Sorry. Really good."

"Mh, I'll swipe some more later. G'night, Cee."

"'Night, doll. I—" His knees bucked and I took in most of his weight, more than aware of his weight and we both swayed. His hands clutched his head as his eyes fluttered like a hummingbird's wings. "I—"

"Shh, it's okay. It's all just a nice little dream." I brushed my fingers through his hair, trying to soothe his nerves so his body welcomed the relaxation. Welcomed sleep.

The pills were potent, more so than what a doctor probably prescribes on the daily. Sedative hypnotics are a little tricky, especially a strong dose of barbiturate. These were a little special going around in conning circles, specifically, for the Sugar Daddy Sinkers. Never liked them or their babydoll energy, but they do have useful tastes.

I had them as an emergency stash for dangerous situations.

Like pulling a sniper into sleep. As one does.

As soon as he started snoring, I carefully laid him down on the balcony, wrapped his arms around himself, and took some covers so he wouldn't freeze to death.

He looked like a very fashionable mummy by the end of it.

Evidently, I was the slip them drugs kind of gal. Not the induce hypothermia kind.

"I'm really sorry for this, darling," I whispered, brushing my palm along his forehead as he slept fitfully, checking his pulse in the process. Seemed stable enough.

Now the clock was officially ticking, and I needed to go.

I slipped into the thickest coat I could get my hands on with all the creaks of a beautiful but very old hotel, brought some shoes to my hands, and quickly slipped out of my room. I settled on the darkened living room for a few heartbeats just to make sure my darling of a boyfriend was still sound asleep— and was out of the hotel in seconds. Hallways were lit but abandoned, and the clerk manning the front desk had his earphones on whilst going through a container of pasta.

I darted past him and out in the awaiting dock. The valet, sitting awkwardly on a lone chair in the misty night, scrambled from his seat upon seeing me. "Signora? È molto tardi."

He fixed his ruby cap, scrubbing his eyes as if only figuring out how I was dressed, still currently putting on my shoes. "Ah. Come posso aiutarla? Ingelese?"

Once I had the shoes on, I smiled my best, most charming goddamn smile. "I need a gondola, please. Mettilo sulla Suite Rose. Signore Park."

SCENE II.

The thing about con artists being pushed against a wall, we almost always see it. And most of us, with the better head as soon as we realised what was happening, would already find a way to take the slip from the situation. No good loot was worth a dangerous situation.

I was perhaps different than most. Just a tad.

The night was cold in the open square I found a few days prior. It was in the back alley, protected by the backs of several residential buildings that had more pipeline connections than windows. I had seen it during a day of shopping; an activity that was mostly for posterity whilst Kristoff actually did some work, and one I fully enjoyed despite Archie's disapproved noises every time he was forced to surrender Kristoff's black cards to my awaiting palm.

That I always had to surrender back to him. I didn't really mind, I had my own money I could touch without them noticing if I really wanted to, but free money was free money, and every time Archie looked constipated was a blessing I cherished.

If I wasn't so pissed, I'd have felt bad for using their trust this way.

If.

I tugged the coat tighter to my body, more than aware I was only wearing silky pyjamas underneath as I tapped my foot on the cobblestone. Anxiety married excitement and was having an affair with fear. Ticking clocks were never my favourite part of any job— especially one where the ending was very clearly bloodied, bruised, and bloated from floating in Venetian water for a while.

I kept my appearance lowkey, hugging myself whilst I looked around my location at every little sound. I'm not as good as military people, but the anxiety was good enough as any.

The spot stayed clear of immediate crowds, and was insignificant enough to be passed over by tricks of the eye at a first glance. It was the best place I could find to serve my purpose; easy to find in case I got lost, and it provided two exits— one that led to the canals, or to disappear into the main thoroughfare where a local market was stocked by the shadowed awnings of closed stalls.

A bustling afternoon was more ideal for this little trick in case it failed; the more people to merge yourself into the better— but I was making do.

And making do with a shitty situation was my expertise.

See expertise and not favourite hobby.

And then I heard it— footsteps coming from the small passage that led from the main square, followed by the outline of a baggy silhouette of one average sized human.

I squinted a little bit, too aware of the brighter lines from that end of exit (one must note down if one needs a speedy, unseen exit), until I recognised the sound of irritated flourish and the bright pink shaved hair. In her fingers, as soon as she was closer, was a scraggly brown wig that could be mistaken as a peeled off head.

"You're late."

"Fashionably," Sophie retorted, grinning as she spun the wig she had don on. Her grin was shark-like, visceral in its mischievous and threatening quality. A comforting display. "Wigs for dudes are so low qual. It's itchy and it's ugly— the materials fucken' trash, but I didn't want to ruin the perfectly good long wigs that I do have, you know? They aren't made cheap— most from real human hair, donated, I think, I keep forgetting to ask, I hope they're donated holy fuck — so, you know, hence the un-cheapness of it all."

Sophie ran acrylic nails— set in a bright green that was almost neon — across her pink buzzcut. Little hearts brushed the sides in deeper cut and dye. She was always so loud; she liked the scandalous glances and curious looks, I was told. But despite such showy figure, Sophie's expertise laid from her sleight of hand and able support.

"Maybe I should start thinking of selling male sorta wigs," she finished, humming her busy thoughts.

Despite my current predicament and plan still rolling in action, I smiled fondly. "I adore you. Thank you for coming. Also— male wigs for the con market? Might work. Maybe try CIA services too, you never know. If I remember correctly, Trent sold them a nifty little tracking device gadget three? Two-three months ago."

She rustled through her baggy bronze pants and produced a pack and a lighter before making a face. "Is that why he retired early, that skeevy motherfucker? Fuck, he's living life last I heard. Y'know someone, then? CIA?"

"I might. Hold on." I stepped closer to her. Whilst she struck a fag, I gently tugged on the leftover fake moustache on the corner of her mouth. "There. What is this glue? There's no residue."

Sophie smirked. "Ama's newest creation, not waterproof though, so don't try near lakes, hurts like a bitch for some fucken' reason." She looked around, inhaling a long drag of her cigarette before she expelled it. "ETA?"

"Any minute now." I tugged at the hem of her coat to sit down.

"Gotta say, Ant, this takes some balls." She pulled a deep drag and blew it with the small wisps of mist surrounding us.

I leaned close to her, wrapping an arm around her own and cuddled. "Thank you for coming despite it."

Sophie chuckled. "I said 'balls'. Of course I'd be here. I'm still not clued in with all of the things you asked me to do, but you know I'd do it. I'm the best partner in crime."

I hummed, feeling a lot calmer as I stared at the shadows and slinks of this little courtyard in the middle of Venice. Everything was unfamiliar, and despite my expertise, anything new was easier to deal with when you're with someone familiar. Comfort was not a common commodity in the business, but it was always welcome.

"Who was with you, at the gondola?"

"Jealous?" she teased.

"Always."

"Nah, that was Alan. Local little grifter here, got in touch through some people I did previous jobs with. He's a local little snick, but he's got an unmemorable face and his body type's good enough, that from a far away, he helps me blend in as a normal dude too."

"Mh. Couldn't recognise you from that far away, even without all the glasses and moustaches."

Sophie beamed with pride. "Of course. I'm the Man of Many Fucking Faces."

"Alright, Oh Great of Man of Many Faces, how many did you get? For tonight?"

"Alan has a lot of buddies and you don't exactly pay under, so I got a little under thirty five, last count."

I whistled. "That's a good number."

"It is." Her coat buzzed and she pulled out a burner phone. One new message. Curtain.

My spine straightened. That was a code word, well, barely a code word and more of a theatre reference made by con artists. A scene doesn't start until the curtain rises. And the only way for a curtain to rise is of all the players were present.

Curtain. Someone was here.

Sophie smirked, stuffing the phone under the folds of her coat, hidden but present, before inhaling a long drag from her cig, enough that embers moved to the damn hilt. She spat it on the ground and grinded it with a sole.

"Who do you think it is?" she asked.

"Dunno."

On a dreary night in a quiet part of town, footsteps on wet cobblestone was loud. Especially in anticipation.

Sophie craned an ear. "That's two, isn't it?"

I exhaled, closing my eyes. Panic married uncertainty. I rested a shaky hand on my chest to feel the loud boom, boom, boom of it all. "It feels three."

"Didn't you take down the sniper, at least?"

"I thought I did." I shrugged, bracing myself. The footsteps were getting closer. Two, that's definitely two. But I sense a third, where are you? "But who knows with former soldiers?"

You're probably on the roofs, in the windows, but where. Does it really matter, one might ask? To me it is. If he shoots me from the back of my skull going forward, I was going to pitch forward and into wet stone. My body would be ruined by dirty, muddy street pavement, or worse—I dislocate my jaw.

An embarrassing death is one thing. An embarrassing body is another.

I always preferred an open casket.

And much too soon than anticipated, one you had to give him props for—

Kristoff Park, in the flesh, looking barely fucking haggard from the amount of sleeping pills I crushed into his favourite container, and Archie Noh— who looked like hell and messy as fuck, oh, god bless — came into view.

Archie looked positively seething, ragged breath and hair askew from its loose braid, his veins pulsing from his neck and forehead. It was so comical that I actually smiled at his approach. Well, from that, and the realisation that Archie Noh braided his hair before sleep.

"Hi, Archie baby, bad sleep?" You pouted. "Did you wake up from a nightmare?"

"Fuck you," he spat.

My retort died from my throat when he pulled out a handgun. He held a white-knuckled tether on it. Sophie squeezed my arm still on her shoulder, but my widened eyes morphed into a smirk.

"I hope your aim is good, babe."

Sophie muttered a curse. "Crazy."

He clicked off the safety.

Sophie's eyes widened. "Crazier."

I finally turned to Kristoff, smirk softening. Just slightly. He was still wearing his suit— so he never fell asleep. I narrowed my eyes at it, but his dark eyes remained singularly on my face. Since he appeared from view, it was carefully blank and regarding me with an astute, cool look.

"How're you doing, my love?" I switched one leg over another. "I see sleeping pills don't work on you."

TRANSLATIONS,

ITALIAN,

Signora? È molto tardi. - Lady? It is very late.

Ah. Come posso aiutarla? Ingelese? - Ah. How can I help you? English?

Mettilo sulla Suite Rose. Signore Park. - Put it on the Rose Suite. Mister Park.

+

Is Nina the type of person to learn specific words & sentences just in case she needs a great escape? Yes, yes she is.

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