Will has been safely put back in the care of Jack Crowford, although he has received minimal reports of his wellbeing. A protected fort is better than what he could give at the moment. Hannibal has no qualms about the large possibility that Mischa would target Will, as she has done before.
On the other hand, Bedelia and Abigail are still pawing for ways to communicate to the millionaire. Landing on American soil felt like a relief and an unmatched threat. The older woman being a well-known figure in the 'organization' with its far grasp, it would be easy to call a hit with all the mercenaries available in the gun trotting country. Even with the promise of safe passage, Mischa was still was fickle woman who changed her mind at every new glance.
The older woman was currently stuck in traffic in the Chicago streets, filled with a cacophony of bangs and shouts, as well as the shuffle of people pouring in and out of the cramped streets. It was already hellish on its own, added with the fact, that paranoia has crept in. Every bang or bump sounding like a gunshot heading their way. Normally she wouldn't even bother going back to the country she formerly called home.
As a youth, she did spend some time in an estate at the south of France, where her lineage originally based. The Du Maurier family being part of the nouveau riche, unlike a certain assassin who was from a well-established vieux riche bloodline. And like most nouveau riche, the uncertainty of time and the lacking of vieux degree of pedigree, the money ran dry, and relocated to the American soil to reestablish themselves. A part of her despised the bustling streets and the endless noise that lingered at all times of the day. Another part of her relived the nostalgia and the joy of the past.
But at this moment, Bedelia Du Maurier has been long dead. An identity laid to rest for the past twenty years. And the one facing the streets was a wary, older, and rather exasperated woman, Lydia Harklan Fell, at least in the eyes of the government.
On the other hand, Abigail marveled at the difference of the European city she lingered in, in contrast to the bustling city, where large and boisterous cars rear each other in the congested streets. Pavements cracked and littered, with smoke slightly sifting through. There is a certain beauty to it, as well as a coldness in the grey view. It wasn't the first time the girl has entered the country, but rather the first time she encountered such a large and urbanized city.
"Hello" Bedelia passively as her eyes never swayed past the road in front of her.
"Tobias Budge has been dealt with." Hannibal uttered, remorseless. As at that very moment, men clad in black were packaging the evidence and the body of the said corpse.
Silence hung between them in a slight rasp, as the assassin can hear the noise from the other end of the line. A sense of relief flooded the woman, her demand for revenge still present, but turned into a dull ache instead. Neal Frank, such a promising man caught in the web of coincidence, or so it seems.
"I hope you are aware that by principle, Tobias Budge was innocent of the crime of murder against . . . Your purpose." The assassin uttered, drawing on his cryptic sense of conversation.
"What do you mean?" Tired and frustrated with the young woman beside her. The older woman snapped, patience waring thinner than it has ever been.
"I said what do you mean?!" She repeated; composure lost. The calmness within her gone, and all thats left is a slowly bubbling aggression.
"Mischa orchestrated everything. Tobias did not plan a coincidental murder, nor did he steal the information about the 'organization'. It was ruse made by the head herself." Hannibal expounded slowly, as he watched some of black clad men scrub down the speckles of blood with efficiency. While the others were task with ammunition retrieval and fixing the broken furniture.
"You have been tricked Bedelia." Hannibal added, finally breaking the seal of the woman's restraint. Her balles hands slammed into the steering wheel. Everything she had done from the very start, meaningless. She danced into the song Mischa has played, and when her usefulness subsided, she was to be eliminated. A morbid game.
"Did you know?!" Bedelia shouted into the device, making even the now silent Abigail flinch.
"No, I did not. I only found out recently." Hannibal replied, as he finally opted to leave the scene of the crime.
That was a lie, and both parties knew it. It was a quiet truce, because no matter the hate accumulating within her, she knew she could not survive without this man. Nor did the man anticipate the ongoing pains of his own blood would inflict on him, and for that fact alone, Bedelia gave a minuscule ambrosia of forgiveness.
"You are a deceitful man." She uttered in reply, ending the call without the gracious formalities. She threw the phone in the backseat of the car, making a dull thud as it hits the holster of the seat.
"I hope you understand that the next time I see your mother, I would be sure to straight at her." Bedelia uttered, her face morphing into the façade of peace, even though her grip on the wheel says otherwise.
Chiyoh watched carefully as wallpaper of her employer's room slowly fill with images of a certain millionaire. Each image being more and more intimate than what it should be. It was unnerving to see the most private parts of a person you have never even met. From the scars on his body to even the smallest mole, Mischa had collected it all. All of which to study the man her brother was infatuated with.
Mischa, lingered on a particular image, the one from Italy, where her brother looked so satisfyingly at a bare Will Graham. The younger sibling felt her brother being slowly tainted. The impurities of human nature slowly reaching her god, her protector. The realization slowly crept within her mind, her Hannibal, her brother, has changed. He was nothing like he was before, he wasn't the brother that tried to save her from her . . . Past.
Chiyoh watched as her employer stripped, each item of clothing, piled up in the floor. As she looked at the full-length mirror before her, comparing every scar the millionaire had in juxtaposition to hers. She had more injuries than him, more discolored scars, more marks of jagged lacerations.
Chiyoh basked at the body before her, seeing it fully for the first time. A sudden sense of shock, disgust and pity impacted her in that instant. Mischa's pale white skin against the pink dried scars, looked like a marionette, with assembled parts, but you can identify the ball joints. Tears started to flow from her eyes, provoked by the woman in front of her. She has yet to fully understand the extent of the suffering, but the image made her sympathize with it, even for just a moment.
One particular scar that she has glimpsed in the past, finally revealed its extent. It was from the middle of the younger woman's back, it curved to the right, continuing to the front. It only stopped just below the navel. It was long and grotesque, as she could sense the sadism that the person who inflicted it had.
"Chiyoh, why am I different?" A childlike question, that stirs the mind. But the servant couldn't answer, she knew why bit she doesn't have the heart to say it.
"All people are different." A generic but stable answer was all the older woman could muster.
Mischa stepped into the servant's direction. Chiyoh anticipated another beating, but instead she felt Mischa grab her hand and placing it at a particular scar below her stomach. A circadian section to be exact. Relatively smaller than some of her scars, but horribly stitched amongst all of them, making the wound heal in an abnormal manner.
"I want this gone the most." Mischa said passively, before letting go of the aforementioned hand and clothing herself once again.
"Deploy a wet work team to kill that man." The younger woman said in an absolute tone, leaving an unsure Chiyoh to start preparation for a siege against the protection of Will Graham.