“Well.”

His eyes darted like houseflies between the case, the desk, and the woman.

“What is this?” he growled, gesturing grandly. “We doing business, or you gonna play games?”

The suit-clad woman at the desk offered a confusing, disingenuous grin and tapped a scarred finger against the mahogany.

“What are you so jumpy about, Marco?” She leaned back to display her impressive stature, broad shoulders fit neatly into black, tailored cashmere. “Your old lady leave you again?”

“Get the broad out,” he demanded, shooing his hand in the slim girl’s direction. “I’m not here to make new friends.”

“She’s my accountant,” Boss replied, tapping her back with a large hand. The girl  remained stiff at Boss’s side. “You scared of pretty girls now too?”

His head twitched nervously to the side as his fingers played with the knot of his tie. He locked eyes with the girl, as if to force her out with a gaze.

Rather than depart, her impressively cool eyes met his with stone-like resolve. She wouldn’t be moved. Sweat began to bead along his hairline, rivets catching on the old notches of his skin. 

The clock in the corner ticked away seconds, each dragging on longer than the last. The air felt stagnant and toxic.

The girl took a slip of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Boss.

“Ah,” she exclaimed casually. “Your return rate really is low these last few months.” She swiveled a bit in her chair to face the girl. “Soricel, are you sure these are correct?”

She said nothing, instead offering a hard glare.

Boss laughed. “Yes, yes. How stupid of me to ask. Of course they’re right.” She turned back to Marco, who seemed to be growing more anxious with each passing moment. “Aren’t they, old friend?”

He swallowed.

She rested her hand on the girl’s lower back, who looked down readily.

“Our friend seems a little thirsty. Could you please pour him something strong?”

She nodded and stepped out from behind the desk.

All the eyes in the room followed her to the alcohol table.

Boss extended her arms in a welcoming motion, leaning back in her seat.

“But, we are all family here, aren’t we? Forgiveness is cheap.”

Marco’s shoulders sagged. The case in his hand seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, the way he clung to it.

“Right,” he glowered.

Intense silence overwhelmed the room. His feet remained pinned to the carpet, fist balled. Boss’s smile turned oppressive.

The decisive ting of glass on wood could be likened to a gunshot. Soricel returned to the desk with a Cognac and a Bourbon; she placed one in front of Boss, and one, deliberately, at the head of the desk. Her opposite hand never left her clipboard.

He eyed the drink with a pointed stare, as if it were a hundred miles away.

“Let’s see it, then.” The words crept from between her lips, a snake’s tongue tasting fear in the air.

He swallowed again. His feet carried him, slow and uneven, to the desk.

“Here.” He extended the case between them.

Boss only stared at it. “Sit.” She motioned.

He awkwardly placed the case in the middle of the desk and adjusted his coat sleeves. “I would, believe me, but you know, I gotta catch Shepard for the next hit and I’m running a little late already, you see?”

He stepped back. “It’s all there. Back pay, too. Had a pretty good month.”

Boss took a sip of her Bourbon. Marco’s neck twitched once more.

“That so?” She placed a hand on top of the case, patting it. She never stopped smiling.

He took another jerky step backwards.

“I gotta run,” he grunted.

“Hey now.” Her brow furrowed as she busied her hands clipping a cigar. “This is a momentous occasion. Marco digs himself out of his own grave, huh? Don’t you want to celebrate? Have a smoke with me.”

He laughs. “You know how Shepard is. I’m late, he’s gonna crawl up my ass about it, you know?”

“At least drink the drink, then. My girl didn’t pour it for no one. Isn’t that right, Soricel?”

She didn’t speak. Boss gestured to the glass.

“Don’t insult my accountant, come on.” There was a playful, pleading lit in her tone. “How am I going to keep her working if there’s no respect around here?”

He watched the girl again. She was slender, a regular Don type of pretty girl who you'd see often on the arms of rich men. Young, sleek eye candy. She was obviously not Romanian, though she seemed to understand them.

She looked like the type of girl who would laugh at all your shitty jokes with her hand in your back pocket. The type who would never shut up, who had too much of daddy's money to play with. 

But her eyes. She's had doll's eyes, reflecting nothing. Her eyes could be the eyes of a corpse. They held on him, suffocated him. He wanted to scream at her to look away. Out of growing terror, he cackled.

“What’s that scar?” he said, pointing to his own face. The line crossed the accountant’s cheeks and nose, a thin but aggressive slice. “Ain’t no accountant got a scar like that. Who are you? Who is she?”

Shocking the room, Boss slammed her fist against the desk. Everyone flinched, except the girl.

“You’re being awfully rude.” She lit her cigar. 

“I’m going.”

“Marco.”

He seized up.

“Drink the fucking drink.”

Ugly energy filled the room to its brim. Tension oozed through the walls. The seconds ticked by, stretched out across obscene distances. Dragging. Dragging. He sucked on his lip, fumbled with his tie again. He couldn't look away from the girl. She didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't even blink or breathe or speak. Nothing. She was a statue when beside Boss, a gargoyle looking down on a crime scene. 

 Taking the couple of steps back to the desk was like wading through waist-deep sludge.

He took the glass with a sweaty hand, and threw the drink back. With an annoyed smile, he presented the empty glass to the accountant.

“Happy?” he chattered. Her stillness gave him nothing.

“That’s expensive stuff there. Smooth, huh?” Boss smirked.

“Yeah. Smooth.”

“Let’s open the loot now.” She moved suddenly to unlock the case.

He jumped back, exclaiming.

The air turned violent inside of a second. Before Marco could unhinge the gun from under his arm, before he’s men could line up a shot, an order passed between the two women.

They didn’t see the girl move. Marco’s head, as it fell to the floor, observed a silver whip pass over him. Silent. An assassin's weapon. The three men saw nothing.

Alive, and then not alive.

Soricel stood in the middle of the room, arms dripping with their blood. Marco’s head rolled to a stop at her heeled foot.

“Poor Marco,” Boss sighed.

She carefully moved the case from the desk to the floor.

“What is it?” The girl’s voice, finally awake, was smooth and dark.

“Knowing Marco?” Boss ashed her cigar. “Probably a fucking dirty bomb.”

“I’ll get rid of it,” Soricel said simply, wiping her hands on her skirt.

Boss looked on with a disappointed gaze. “I dress you so nicely. Couldn’t you try to keep yourself clean?”

Unimpressed, Soricel circled the desk and pulled the cigar from her mouth, dropping it in the metal trashcan in the corner.

“You'll stink of smoke,” she chided.

She grunted with disapproval. “I almost died!” she exclaimed. “Let me have my simple pleasures.”

“You insult me.” Her flat tone made it hard to interpret her meaning, but Boss was skilled in that prospect.

“Oh, of course.” She grabbed her waist as she passed. “Forgive me. I would never doubt your abilities.”