VII.

P O K E R  F A C E

—aka, it's all about perspective, baby,

EXT— A PARTY.

VENICE, ITALY — NIGHT.

CONT. SCENE III.

"— MAYBE, THEY COULD be a nice picture of hope."

Archie Noh stared at me as if I grew another head. "You have a. . . very fanciful mind, Ms. La Verne."

I laughed softly, eyes back to the ever moving crowd. We were in some sort of ballroom with massive conclave ceilings littered in Italian Renaissance paintings, curved around thick friezes and blooming chandeliers roped in thick braces. The glass is heavy baubles made of sharp edges, bouncing prism across the room

The ceiling's paintings are bright, depictions of a party filled with pompadour of the late Renaissance period from the top, mirror the ones at the bottom in extravagant colour and stretched smiles. Laughter echoed on both sides— the present and the past.

In between this mirror was me, more than aware that I didn't belong to either. Wonderful and annoying as the rich are, there is an undeniable beauty in their world. A beauty everyone envies of. It's not hard to pinpoint, but it is hard not to look away despite the hatred of something you can't have, not without sacrificing something else in return because unlike them, you weren't born in it.

But it is a beautiful world if you look at it with fairytale eyes, as long as your gaze never stray further than the gossamer. Lest you want the mirror to crack and splinter, where the teeth and blood are hidden. Eyes, yellowed and hungry and ancient, more than ready devour.

"I guess I am. Orphanages never get a lot of new books," I said, almost to myself. Still staring with a small, nostalgic smile on my face. "And frequent donated ones are fairytales or folktales. It was the few chances I could practice my reading and grammar, and I guess. . . escape a noisy room full of other orphans. Princes are cliche, sure, but a lonely girl can only dream of one to sweep her off her feet and give her a better life, yes? Though life is rarely so kind, it's always nice to imagine. Although I much prefer a king. Even if we do know what happened to Sleeping Beauty."

Archie's stare was burning the side of my face. It was always a point of frustration to him that he barely knew anything about me. Kristoff kept his enemies on their toes, Archie kept everyone else— ally or usable soldier — in line. Much of what Kristoff knows is a coin to what Yuna knows, as much as it's good enough to be damning, it's not everything.

I've gone through so many names, so many characters and cons, for a little sleuthing over from demonic siblings with money to unravel.

I will never be powerless. Not completely. No matter how tight they think the leash they have on me is.

Unmistakably, through a keen sense because I was waiting for it— a crackle from Archie's earpiece brought a shudder to the man beside me, as the volume expanded to words even I could hear.

"YOU'RE AN ORPHAN, NINA DOLL?"

"Shut up," Archie hissed, adjusting his earpiece with an adulated 'fuck' and 'loud bastard'. I tried listen on what KC was saying next, but since he had gone into a decibel better heard for Archie's poor ear and I couldn't, I watched the other man's expressions instead, slowly morphing into complete annoyance.

He met my curious, repressed giggling, glared as if it was all my fault, and huffed as he shoved me his earpiece.

"Both of you are incomprehensible," he seethed, turning to look forward with a fierce glare, unable to walk out because Kristoff told him to stay with me.

I bit my bottom lip to stop from laughing, choosing to give him this little reprieve because I was nice— I was so nice, wasn't I? — and quietly put on the earpiece to hear, genuinely, the only person in this entire scheme I didn't mind around.

"What did you say to make Archie give me his earpiece?"

I may have sounded way too amused because Archie shot me another glare, this one absolutely withering. I bit my lip from sticking my tongue out. Archie may seem like a typical hothead who is disgusted by the likes of me— and pushing his buttons is so fun, but the man was conniving. He handled every bit of Kristoff's affairs from what I've observed, through quiet conversations and locked rooms. He immediately shuts up and glares at me whenever I 'accidentally' drop by, humming, appearing oblivious as I decide to read not too far from them because 'it's the best spot in the room, baby, and last I heard I'm still allowed to roam the room wherever I please'.

It wasn't that he was keen, not as keen as Kristoff— who stared at what the little movements in his expression said: my most pathetic attempt at eavesdropping yet — but his distrust was an iron wall. His looming, upturned nose was, in the distance and across said wall, ready to yell 'NO'.

Plus, the man was responsible for my actual welfare. Kristoff paraded me sure, lavished up the world around me in buttery rose gold and Jupiter effervescent glitter. But Archie was in charge of my daily necessities; the behind the scenes when I've wiped off my makeup and tried to relax my face from all the goddamn smiling and acting happy in the arms of a man I did the entire day.

I have a strong hunch that he was petty enough to do something diabolically inconvenient. Nothing too damning, not until I've expended my use, surely, but small and irritating enough that I'd grit my teeth through it. And I really like the plushness of how I've been living so far, playacting regardless. I was eating three Michelin-starred meals a day, new clothes almost every other, and there were goose-feathers in my pillows. All six of them. All for me. In one massive, plush bed I could roll around several times before I meet the edge.

It was utterly ridiculous, and I loved it.

If he didn't obviously hated my guts, I would've been kind enough to thank him. I was raised with perfectly good manners after all. He just loved being a dick.

"Nina doll," he started, and I could clearly picture KC's infamous, striking grin through it. God, what I wouldn't do with KC here instead of Up-My-Ass, we'd probably be having a riot.

"We all know, despite his very rough exterior, and okay, also equally rough interior, there's a soft spot in Archie Noh. Like, a very, very tiny, minuscule soft spot, maybe the size of a lint."

"Sure."

"Alright, maybe quarter an atom." His laugh was too infectious. But then he sobered up real quick. "Are ya really an orphan, Nina doll? 'Cos that would explain a lot."

My eyes flickered back to Archie, smirk threatening. "No, not really."

KC howled with laughter.

Archie's eyes narrowed, possibly hearing KC's laughter, he jutted out his hand. "Alright, that's enough. Give it back." I did, and he huffed as he put it on, muttering, "I don't think I have to remind you two that we are at a job. Act like it." Making his point, he turned behind us, to the elaborately carved floor to ceiling windows that showed Venice in all its glory— and glared in the general vicinity of the buildings across the water.

Somewhere there, was KC with a sniper. Maybe. I didn't really know what KC trotted on during his range duties, but I always know he's there. Protecting and striking from the shadows.

KC was Kristoff's soldier, the one he mentioned he didn't need me to be. I met him a full two weeks into the whole plan, when I couldn't help but feel I was being watched. I first brushed it off as Yuna's goons, probably on high alert from their mistress who was most likely losing her mind at the turn of events.

And as much as that amused me— seeing a pretty little princess work out the math that she lost should've been a sight for sore eyes — but that didn't stop me from tossing and turning all night, and gaining eye bags the next morning that Archie 'tsk'ed at.

"Your face is your only value, how are you supposed to work today looking like that?"

I paused halfway from sitting on the breakfast table with him and Kristoff, seriously debating if throwing a fork at his stupid head would cost me anything I'd regret.

Kristoff continued on with his coffee and morning paper as if he was the only one in the room. He refused to acknowledge our existence when we bickered.

With a sigh, I sat down and decided to turn the other cheek.

"That's strike one."

I lied. Turn the other cheek, my arse.

"Excuse me?" he scoffed, delicate hands paused over his breakfast plate.

"Tsk, what's the use of a secretary if he can't hear well?" I fluttered my eyelashes at the throb in his vein. Kristoff's eyes turned from the paper to us, dark eyes watching, waiting for someone to back down. Hoping someone backs down before he intervenes.

Fat chance.

"I said, that's strike one. I'm sure from your no doubt amazing scholastic background, that you have an inkling to what happens when you get three strikes. Sure it's a sports reference, but it's basic enough for your delicate constitution to understand, I'm sure."

"And what," he snapped his point by gnashing his teeth per syllable, "—pray tell, can you do after three strikes?"

I smiled sweetly, taking a piece of toast and ripping it in half with a deliberate slowness. "Does the glorified secretary want a little taste? I dare you. Push me. Kinda wanna see what happens."

Oh, I'd crossed something, I could see from the way he was starting to purple and from Kristoff's sigh. Before Kristoff could break off a possible murder, victim and murderer still undetermined— booming laughter burst from a corner in the room. I whipped my head to see a man entering the space, massive in built and a little on the shorter side with tanned skin and the biggest, ear-splitting grin I'd ever seen.

"I knew you were going to be something else the minute I saw you," he said, voice distinctly accented. It felt distinctly South American, but it was too light and airy to pinpoint. And his eyes— striking bright green eyes against dark skin and tousled, brown hair curling at the ends of his ears — full of mirth and repressed laughter. "But I didn't expect you to be an absolute spitfire."

"I'm assuming I'm supposed to know you?" I said in lieu of a greeting, as neither of two in the table with me looked surprise by his general appearance.

Thinking that, I didn't think I heard the door open.

"Sorta. I'm KC." He offered a hand, popped with veins and scars. When I took it, the callouses were rough but he was warm. Something about this, and his entire demeanour, calmed me entirely. "And I think I'm the one who owes you an apology. Or at least, that strike one."

KC had apparently been watching me for some time. Ever since I boarded the boat back in Positano, I was already on his radar, Kristoff's backup. Always from a distance, eagerly watching what I'd do next. I turned to Kristoff at the bubbly man's explanations, eyes narrowing.

"What?" he asked, feeling the burning stare of my gaze without looking up.

". . . Nothing." I managed to control my expression and tone before he noticed.

The next reason I was tossing and turning into the night was the nagging thought that if I hadn't played right into the beast's hands, I would've probably been shot.

I watched Kristoff now, beautiful as an artwork lovingly made by a master, and as predatory as I predicted, with an arsenal of plans and motions I couldn't find an area to pinpoint.

No matter how sweet he played his part, I knew him for what he was. What he was capable of.

And I refuse to put be put on the fucking send.

So when his eyes met my gaze— as equal and sharp as I remember those dark eyes to be, feeling the burning of my gaze from across a crowded room because he just always seems to — I smiled. Prettily. Expectantly. A few heads turned with his gaze, so I threw in a wink for our adoring crowd. Just for him.

I wonder what you'd do.

If I betrayed you.

I wonder what he saw before I smiled.

I wonder what he thought of it.

I wonder if he knows what was about to happen next.

SCENE IV.

We reached the hotel in a flurry of smiles and aching joints, where, as soon as we were in the safe confines of the suite, I was groaning and moaning as I peeled off my heels and threw myself on one of the elongated and blindingly white sofa with a pronounced, "Fuck me running."

Attempting divinity in mortal skin takes a lot of hard fucking work.

I turned to Kristoff just as he finished talking to Archie over the door— who indulgently shot me the last glare of the day like the trooper he was — and closed the door behind him as he undid his tie, his eyes not even touching mine when he murmured—

"Language."

Despite the weary exhaustion, man still had a time to reprimand.

I groaned, the sound carrying in this massive living room bathed in soft light and sharp darkness. "Next time, if we're just plastering our relationship into their faces, I'd much rather go sightseeing in a local market in white shoes and a nice sundress. Feed you some oranges or gelato if it makes you feel better."

"And what would the point be. . . if only the locals could see us?"

I snorted softly, hugging a taunt pillow to my chest as I watched him take off his jacket and go straight for the decanter he'd been sipping since we've been here. In fact, It has been the exact same bottle he'd been drinking in every hotel we've been in.

Dark amber in a fancy glass that reminded me of the dance in a tiger's eye. It was a nice glass work, a wide top that split in the middle to make way for a hole, and then met again in the flat bottom. Huge and heavy enough to use as a weapon with a gold lined lip and heavy glass stopper.

"We're being watched like hawks since we got together," I murmured, watching him between shadow and light. "One of the partygoers even tried talking to me about you, making jovial hints of our comings and goings. We're the current topic of the gossip mill."

My fingers found one of my heavy earrings, gently cupping the damn thing before taking them off one by one. They were so pretty but so heavy.

He took a nice sip before I could visibly see his entire body relax, an exhale slipping out of his shiny lips. "Mh, and what did he want?"

"She. Nice old lady. Told me all about her strict caviar and champagne diet with absolute reverence that sounded like a cry for help. She says she sorta knows you, and that you've been a lonesome dark stranger in a room full of laughter whenever you're here for business and attempt at pleasure." He shot me a flat look. "What? Her words, sir. She said she even tried to set you up with her daughter, but you, and I quote, 'violently turned her down'."

"Ah."

"Ah?"

The room was dark, save for the few lamps that were lit in the surrounding area. I could barely see his face from where he moved further into the shadows, his ass the only thing in the light. A very nice, distracting ass. There was movement of ice on glass. Another pour. Then his front view was back but his face was still obscured. Another sip.

"Her husband's in the mafia and her daughter was ugly," he explained after a minute, taking in another sip. "I've got enough on my plate as it is."

I half choked on spit. "Jesus. What divine right do you have to judge people's looks?" As soon as I said that, I remembered what his face looked like. "You know what, fair enough. But I didn't think you were so shallow, Mr. Park."

"It wasn't just her looks that was ugly, but her entire countenance. Beauty is one thing, but attitude is another. I don't have time for women who demand what they want and expect me to grovel at my knees to show for it. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been too bad for a marriage partner."

My grin was lazy. "And we can't have everything, huh?"

"I can," he corrected, voice deep. "And I will."

A flare of annoyance, but you can't fault a man sure of himself.

I stood up, stretched, and walked to the balcony, aware of his gaze watching my every move. I braced my palms on the smooth surface of the ledge, drinking in the view, the cool air, and watched the dark skies move to cover the stars and moon. Rain was coming. How hard was the question.

I turned back to him, smiling softly as I leaned back on the ledge, on my elbows. "I hope you fall in love with someone who demands what they want, and expects you, to grovel at their feet. I hope you become devout. That's a better word for it— I hope I live long enough to see you devout, Kristoff Park."

TERMS,

" put on a send " = a long con that puts the mark in a false sense of security.

+

Again, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I have to halve this chapter for reaching 4k. Once more. Plus, next chapter's a little. . .

;-)