The Mistress
Nora stayed in her chair and didn’t turn around when she heard the door open behind her again. But when the door opened a third time, she heard the pained cry of a young woman. She stood up and spun around.
“Laila?” Nora recognized the girl at once—Søren’s niece. The man let Laila go, and she rushed into Nora’s arms.
“Tante Elle,” Laila cried as they sunk to the floor together. Nora pulled her close and held tight to the girl’s trembling body.
“You psycho bitch, what the f**k are you doing?” she demanded, turning back to Marie-Laure.
Laila clung to Nora, who could only pull the girl closer and rock her in her arms. She seemed mostly unharmed. A cracked lip, a bloody bruise on her cheek. She must have fallen in some sort of struggle.
“Are you all right?” she whispered to Laila in the little Danish she remembered.
“Okay,” Laila whispered back. “I was at Onkel Søren’s house. They grabbed me and—”
“You two look very sweet,” Marie-Laure said. “And aren’t we a lovely trio? We have the wife, the mistress and the niece all here together. I thought about taking one of his sisters, but the little girl’s better. Men always do prefer the younger ones. Look at you...” Marie-Laure studied Laila’s face. “Such a beautiful thing. You look like him. Different eyes, though. Sweet blue eyes, not gray. All the boys must be in love with you.”
Laila shuddered in Nora’s arms.
“No one is in love with me,” she said, and Nora kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Jeg elsker dig” into Laila’s ear—I love you.
“Don’t worry. Love is overrated. But tell me something about love, Laila,” Marie-Laure said, coming close to where Nora and Laila sat huddled on the ground. She sensed the man hovering behind them so she made no move to escape. It was too dangerous, especially now with Laila there shivering in her arms almost paralyzed from fear.
“What?” Laila asked, her voice quaking. Nora ran her hand up and down Laila’s back, trying to instill some comfort into the girl.
“Does your uncle love this woman?” She inclined her head toward Nora. “This whore of his? Does he love her?”
Laila looked up at Nora, who only nodded her head, indicating Laila should tell the truth as best she could.
“Yes,” Laila said. “Of course he does. She’s...” Laila’s voice broke and tears started to stream down her face. Nora started crying then, too, in simple fear for Laila. “She’s everything to him. She’s like his wife.”
Marie-Laure’s eyes flinched but she only turned back to Nora.
“What about her?” Marie-Laure said to Nora. “Does he love his niece?”
“Of course he does, you lunatic. She’s like a daughter to him.”
“The pretend wife or the pretend daughter? So hard to choose... I need to keep one of you here. But one of you needs to go to him and deliver a message. But who does he love more? Whom should I keep? Whom should I send? Whoever stays, we’ll have a wonderful time together, me and my houseguest.”
The man, Damon, stepped forward and into Nora’s field of vision. Had she seen him on the street she would have thought him homeless as gaunt and bitter as he looked. Thin and short, but those traits only made him look more menacing. He had a deadly tilt to his mouth and a roughness about his edges despite his expensive gray suit. He had the same look in his eyes that Kingsley had—the look of a man who’d killed without caring and could still sleep at night.
“I know...” Marie-Laure continued. “I’ll let you two decide. Choose. Who stays? Who goes? Quick, quick. Tell me.”
A smile of pure malice swept across Marie-Laure’s face. Laila gasped and started to speak.
Nora clapped her hand over Laila’s mouth.
“I’ll stay,” Nora said immediately and without hesitation. “Send Laila with whatever stupid f**king message you have. I’ll be your houseguest as long as you want.”
Marie-Laure shrugged seemingly unimpressed and unsurprised by Nora’s answer.
“C’est la vie. I think you’ll be more fun to play with, anyway. Damon?”
The man stepped forward, grabbed Laila by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Marie-Laure met her eye to eye.
Nora started to stand up but Damon shot her a warning look. Nora sank back down the floor. Instead, she reached up and clasped Laila’s hand.
“Tell your uncle, my husband...” Marie-Laure dropped her voice to a whisper. “That I gave him my death as a gift. And now I’m taking my gift back.”
7
THE KING
Even knowing how futile it would be, Kingsley made phone calls to a few of his better sources—one in the upper echelons of the NYPD, another in the FBI. They both pledged to quietly investigate but they made him no other promises. He would have made more calls but couldn’t afford the risk. Only being a priest brought Søren the same measure of peace that owning Nora did. If it got out that not only was Søren still married somehow but also had a lover, the justice of the church would come down swift and merciless. Only last year Kingsley had read a story in the news about a Catholic priest who’d fallen in love with a woman and married her. The consequence? Excommunication. Strange justice. Priests who molested children were put into counseling. The priests who fell in love with adults were damned. And Søren wondered why Kingsley had never converted.