Chapter Twelve

"So you're letting Illumi accompany her to Yorknew. You've noticed it, then?"

"Yes, Father. Chiara Flaminia seems to be good for him. I'm interested to see where this goes."

"You do realise she'd be no asset to the Zoldyck family, of course?"

"I beg to differ."

"Besides which, she's a lovely little girl but loveliness has no place with Illumi. He will rip her to shreds one way or another, and there will be nothing for us to do but watch."

"Perhaps," Silva said. "We'll see."

Yorknew City sparkled below them, haloed by light and glowing against the night's horizon. For a long time, Chiara gawked out the airship's window – she cooed over the view, beckoned Illumi to look with her. "It's so big!" she cried. "And pretty! It must be super easy to get lost here."

"You're not here to sightsee," Illumi said.

"Mmm? Oh, I know ~ don't worry. I'll get focused as soon as we land."

She carried on looking, and from his seat, Illumi watched her. Gleams of light across her face like splotches of watercolour, hands pressed flat against the window. In puffy sleeves and pale stockings, a bow in her hair, she could have been just like any other little girl: taken up by the city's glitter, excited and delighted by everything, and totally oblivious. It worried Illumi. It wouldn't do. As much as he liked looking at her like this – the sort of thing he'd want to bottle away – he wished she would sit back down. Breathe. Bring herself to the matter at hand.

The first thing Father had said was that Illumi was not to interfere; if Chiara wanted to be an assassin, she'd have to do this on her own. All of it. The worst of it. But at least he would be nearby. He could keep her from getting hurt. The thought brought with it a distinct relief – so long as he was there, nothing would happen. Nobody would lay a hand on her (and live).

She gasped, the sound full of thrill, and pressed her face against the window to get a better look at whatever she'd spotted.

Illumi couldn't remember having been so excited on his first job – granted, it had been a long time ago. Still, when she'd asked him if he would come along, the innocence of the question had startled him. Disturbed him. The restraint of telling her 'no' had brought him so close to pain, it was almost stunning. And then there'd been the disappointment in her face, the assurance that next time, next time, they'd go together. Like it bore all the greatest promise: her and him, and next time.

But what of this time? God, Illumi hated the thought of her alone. Almost as much, he hated the Flaminia mothers for having planned it that way; he hated the twins for not stopping it.

Perhaps that was why Father had convinced the Flaminia mothers to let Illumi join.

Perhaps Father knew it as much as Illumi did.

Chiara was not like her family. She may have seemed an assassin – with the scars and a prickling, peculiar aura to prove it – but that was only on the outside. In truth, the girl who stared out the airship window was one of inexplicable humanness. She was just a girl: a slight, lovely girl whose pinky finger was finer than a feather, whose dresses fluttered jauntily as she climbed up oak trees and chased frogs in the rain. City lights made her happy. Morbid things made her curious. And Illumi wanted her just like that. He didn't think it would be right or fair for the world to rob him of something that made his heart twinge so sincerely.

From his seat, he rose to stand with Chiara. He pretended to look out over the city when really, he stared hard at her reflection.

"Chiara."

"Mmm?"

He put his hand over hers, fingers between her fingers, squeezing lightly. It didn't seem to startle her but still she tore her gaze from the city to blink at him, blood in her cheeks, rosy against her skin's seashell whiteness. Illumi took her hand from the window and held it, their fingers interlocked in a pattern without any clear beginning. It said much more than he'd be able to manage with words – really, it made words seem unnecessary. Unwelcome even.

Shyly, a smile curled its way about Chiara's face, and she clasped Illumi's hand more tightly. He liked to think he could feel the faint undulation of scars in her palm, where her mothers whipped her. His thumb brushed itself down the side of her hand, committing to memory the thin stretch of flesh over bone. So this was what it felt like: holding hands. A thousand pinpricks in his stomach, up and down his spine, like firecrackers flaring to life.

A chaste possessiveness: she would be his to keep safe. He would hold her hand like this always.

They watched the target for three days – behind menus in the hotel restaurant, around corners and through windows obscured from view. A politician, a few bodyguards. In it all, Chiara surprised Illumi; she was a model observer. Very good at staying hidden, even better at absorbing important information. Silent. Still. Rarely distracted by all the bustle of the city – the ebb and flow of people on the sidewalks, the dazzle of shop windows, the sounds of traffic deep into the night.

It was only every now and then that Illumi had to remind her of protocol. Only a few times that he really felt the need to interfere. It would be better if you did it like this. She'd smile and do as he suggested. No, not like that. You'll draw too much attention to yourself. She'd press her fingertip to his lips, blithely – "Ssh, Lumi. It's my job. I know what I'm supposed to do."

But she'd listen to him anyway.

On the fourth day, hair tied with a yellow scrunchie as bright as her yellow socks, Chiara padded through the hotel restaurant to make first contact. Smells of coffee and breakfast pastries. Clatter of cutlery to punctuate the din of voices. Illumi was relegated to a corner to watch, removed and seething silently as Chiara – dressed not in her usual frills and pretty dresses, but looking just like any other city child in cheap denim and sneakers – tapped sweetly on the target's shoulder. She pointed out something at the buffet, rising onto tip-toe in emphasis. Please, ojisan, I can't reach. Would you please help me?

There was the delicate flash of a wrist beneath her jersey. That wide, childish smile when the target handed her a chocolate pastry from the very back of the baskets.

He was as unassuming as any other politician: a paunch around the stomach and strands of silver hair to betray his age, a wedding ring on his finger and the family-man smile to match. Amiably, he bent down towards Chiara, suit fitting closely to awkward places.

Illumi could see him speak, could make out the careful shape of his words – "You've got a very pretty accent, young lady. Where are you from?"

Chiara was turned away, but the tremor in her shoulders was that of a giggle.

"And are you staying at this hotel?" the target asked.

She nodded her head, and gestured enthusiastically while speaking.

The target pressed a hand to her head, ruffled her hair. "I see. Well then, you go ahead and enjoy that pastry now."

Off she skipped to an empty table, kicking her legs as she picked at the croissant. Chewing quick and deliberate, licking crumbs from the corners of her lips. It was that easy, despite how bodyguards circled the room like vultures. It was that easy, and from the moment he sat down, the target watched Chiara from across the room. Not long enough for anyone else to notice – lingering glances over his coffee cup, eyes scanning the newspaper and oh-so-easily flickering to her with each turn of a page. Her: feigning ignorance, pretending that every purse of her mouth and dainty flick of her shoulders wasn't intended entirely for him.

And Illumi, with no sense of surprise, suffered through his own revulsion quietly. Hating everyone the longer it went on.

Two more days. Chiara, in pastel sweatpants and pleated skirts and branded t-shirts, bumping into the politician in hallways or the hotel foyer. The politician, surprised and delighted – Oh! You again! He'd laugh. He'd touch her hair, her shoulders, her arms. And what is your name? And where are your parents?

This was how the Flaminias did their deeds.

Where Illumi's family would stalk, study, strike silently and decisively, the Flaminias played with their prey. They dazzled in all the most tailored ways – from the clothing they wore to the words they used – so that their targets would die with stunned expressions and hints of disappointment in their hearts. Oh! That such lovely things she be so deadly! It attracted sadistic clients. This time was no different.

The politician in question was not known for his enemies nor his vices. Both lurked in the shadows, removed and well-concealed from the knowledge of polite society. It took underworld connections to know that he liked pretty little girls with absent parents, that his business trips were as much for politics as they were for 'pleasure'.

Chiara played the part perfectly.

Kei and Dahlena had said she'd be just right for the job, after all.

For it, Illumi wished them dead.

Finally, on the evening of the seventh day, it came time for the finale. In an unoccupied room on the same floor as the target's, Chiara used a razor to slice through her dress and into her thigh. She flinched, hissed breathily as blood bloomed in brilliant scarlet against blue cotton. It was not serious – just enough to attract attention, unlikely to even leave a scar. As quickly as it happened, Chiara forgot about it. She smiled at Illumi and gestured for the plastic bag he held.

He held it out, saying nothing as she dropped the red-rimmed razor into the bag.

Hands ghosting over his, she sealed it up. "What's wrong, Lumi?"

He didn't bother asking what she meant. "This is not a good job for you."

"Why? Haven't I done well?"

"You have."

"It's been easy until now." Standing from the bed, razor now discarded to the side, she tip-toed towards him. "Tonight will be quick-quick, and then we can celebrate with milkshakes on the airship on our way home." Her arms went around his shoulders, her face pressed to his neck. Oh god. "Thank you for coming with me this week. It's been the nicest." The smell of her hair, like blossoms. The flash of her palm holding onto his nape as she pulled away. "I hope we can do this again!"

The ache in Illumi's chest refused to yield. Beneath her bright gaze, his hatred for her family and for her target and for himself – for the fact that he was letting her go like this – only festered in greater acidity. Anxiously, he held her there. "I won't let anything happen to you," he said. "I will be right outside the door if–"

"Don't be silly! Just wait here for me." She turned towards the door. "I'll be back before you know it~"

They sat around the dinner table. No one spoke, though Mommy and Mamma wore indifference well.

They sipped from their wine, lipstick stains bright on their glasses, and paid no attention to how the twins trembled in their seats. How their hands grasped at each other beneath the table, cold with dread and the weight of anticipation.

"When will we hear from her?" Tadashi asked at last.

"Later."

"And if we don't?" Datari probed.

"Then we don't."

Powerless. Terrified. Their first jobs had ended without trouble. It had all happened silently and exactly as requested by the clients. Datari had gotten away with little more than bruises on the most intimate parts of her nine-year-old body. Tadashi had managed to wash the smell of intestines off of his hands within a few days, even if the memory had lingered longer. But Chiara wasn't like them. Even if Illumi Zoldyck was there – he'd been told not to interfere. He would though, wouldn't he? Surely?

Surely, he knew it as much as they did?

The man came by at the exact minute, focused on his phone before noticing her.

Slouched against the hallway wall, clutching her thigh like it hurt, Chiara gasped against messy tears. She'd slapped at her cheeks to make them flare red, she'd rubbed her nose on her wrist to make it seem tender – a mask of little-girl agony. Like she was a whole number of years younger than thirteen. Her throat hurt from swallowing down on her giggles. The cut in her leg throbbed dully, blood seeping thicker and brighter the harder she squeezed. She knew how to cry. Even if she had stopped crying for real years ago.

And indeed, the man bought into it. Bodyguards standing around them, the tip of his shoes to her stockinged toes, he bent down and cocked his head at her in a kind, questioning look. "Now, what's all this then?" he cooed sweetly, and touched a finger to her cheek. "I come back after my meeting to find this little damsel distress! What's got you so terribly upset, young lady?"

In a show of misery, Chiara shook her head. Oh! It was so hard not to laugh! She pretended to flinch away from him, and in doing so brought the bloodied slash of her dress into view. The man spotted it, eyes widening.

"I was – was trying to cut off a – a –a thread from my dress." Chiara sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "The scissors – they – I – they slipped and – and – and–"

"Say no more! We have a Miss Clumsy Fingers on our hands. Where is your mommy?"

Chiara shrugged shakily.

"And your daddy?"

"He went out… Dunno when he'll – I mean – s-sorry, ojisan. I'm not supposed to tell."

There was the smell of smoke on his breath as he chuckled. Not like the spicy, rich scent of Mamma's pipe, but something more sour and old. Chiara had to try hard not to crinkle her nose as the man leaned closer, taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face to look at him. "That's alright," he said softly. "But we shouldn't leave that nasty cut untreated… Come with me. Let me patch you up."

One of the bodyguard's cleared their throat. "Sir–"

He waved a hand dismissively. "No, no. Not now."

Holding Chiara's hand, he helped her to stand and guided her to his suite a few doors down. Gentle, almost unnoticed, his hand lingered in the small of her back. His steps remained even, though quicker than usual, and when they arrived, he had to swipe his room-key twice to get it right. The bodyguards checked the suite first, Chiara standing in a show of shyness at the door with the man at her side. When they were done, two of the bodyguards stayed outside while the others stationed themselves around the room.

"We'll be going into the bedroom," the man said, and guided Chiara towards a separate door. "The lady will need her privacy."

From the hotel's blueprints, Chiara knew it would be easy enough to leave via the balcony. She'd have a while to change her clothes and prepare a wig, after which she could leave down the fire exit and meet Illumi at the car. The security cameras would already have been wiped, though she'd been careful to conceal her face from view as much as possible, so it wouldn't matter much. The bodyguards would probably only check on the situation well after she and Illumi had left.

The man closed the door behind them. The room was warm, too close – the bedsheets were plush and white, the bedside lamps emitting a golden aura. Chiara sat at the edge of the bed, still sniffing at pretend-tears, while the man busied himself in the bathroom.

He brought out bandages, kneeled in front of Chiara.

"Now," he said, and pinched the edge of her dress, lifted it. "Let's see what we have here. Hmm – nothing too serious, I'd say. It won't even leave a scar." He cupped her thigh almost entirely, raising it to wrap the bandage. "And thank goodness for that. You have such pretty skin, it would have been a real shame if you'd hurt yourself."

"Thank you, ojisan."

"You know, sweetheart, I don't believe I've asked your name yet."

"My name?"

"Yes."

"Umm–"

"Don't want to tell me?"

Feigning coyness once again, Chiara shook her head.

"Well, that's quite alright. Perhaps I could call you by a nickname, then." Playfully, he patted her cheek. "Let's see – such a pretty little girl like you, fresh as a daisy. What do you think of Daisy-chan?"

Chiara tilted her head from side-to-side, playing at uncertainty and resisting the urge to say that it was the stupidest nickname she had ever heard. "If you like, ojisan." Then, she touched at her leg, bandaged up and bare. Just below her fingertips, the man's hand rested. "Thank you for the bandage. I will go now, if you'd like."

"Actually, why don't you stay with me for a little while? Come, sit with me while we wait for your daddy to come home."

The bed sighed beneath his weight as he placed himself next to Chiara, hip-to-hip, so close she could smell the smoke and the sour remnants of sweat on his skin. With a lazy sigh, he pulled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes. Then he put his hand back on Chiara's thigh. Mommy and Mamma had said he'd probably want to be friendly, that he'd probably try and get very close to her – and she would have to play along. It was all part of the job, they said.

And when was she supposed to stop playing along?

She'd just know. Mommy and Mamma trusted her.

"How old are you, Daisy-chan?"

"I'm eleven."

"Such a big girl. You have very nice hair. Can I feel it?"

"Mmm. Okay."

It carried on like this. Her hair. Her neck. Her legs again. All the while, Chiara felt something sharp hook into her chest. Something felt strange. Of course, this was what she had expected – this was what Mommy and Mamma had said would happen. And yet, the longer she sat there, the more she felt her excitement fizzle out into uncertainty. Everything took on a bit of a sick hue. The smell of the man's breath and body made her a little dizzy.

But it didn't feel like the right time to stop playing along just yet. If she was going to do what the clients had wanted, she would probably have to carry on a little longer. Wouldn't she? Yes, it was fine. This was fine. Wasn't it?

"Daisy-chan," the man said, mouth now lined against her ear. "Since I'm looking after you like this, can you do something for me? As a thank you?"

She blinked at him.

"Won't you take off your stockings?"

This wasn't what she had expected. But could she say no? Chiara stood, and slowly, shivering slightly, peeled off her stockings. Everything began to feel cold, except the places over her skin at which the man stared. The feeling punctured her lungs, made her voice disappear so that she could only nod when he asked her to take off her jersey too. Then the sash around her waist. Then – "You're being such a good girl. You know what I'd like very much? If you'd take off your dress for me too. Can you do that?"

She didn't want to take off her dress. Was she supposed to be doing this? Would she be allowed to stop? Biting down into her lip, tasting something metallic on her tongue, Chiara shook her head. "S-sorry… I don't… don't think–"

"Oh, sweetheart, if you're shy, let me help you. Come here. You know it would make this silly old man so very happy."

She couldn't move. Her bones had turned to marble. Her stomach rose up into her throat. "I'm sorry."

The man smiled. He rose.

And suddenly, he seemed huge. An impossibility. Before, it had been so clear what she was supposed to do. How she would slit his throat and open his chest and leave his heart like an offering in his lap. But now… now…

His hand was around her chin, harsher than before and digging into her skin like a claw. The world crashed against Chiara in full-force, the room's dim light suddenly brilliant and burning, the erratic shudder of her pulse suddenly a violent drumbeat. Throb-throb. Throb-throb. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. She could have thrown him off. She could have run. But her body did nothing. As much as she wanted to object, nothing came. Nothing, except the man's mouth pressing down on hers, his tongue prying her lips open and licking across her teeth.

Thick, wet muscle. Down her throat. She couldn't bring herself to breathe. She could just barely register how his other hand slipped under her dress and in between her legs.

At last, her hands curled into fists. Stupidly, she slammed them into his chest, tried to push him away. She could have! She should have been able to! But her arms felt little more than vines, and he held her there. He pushed her backwards onto the bed, and weighed himself down on her like an animal on the prowl.

"Stop." There was no voice in her throat. "Don't - please-"

"Ssh, Daisy-chan, this is to say thank you for taking care of you, remember? Just let me do this one tiny thing - it's alright."

His mouth on hers again. She could taste him. No. Oh, please, no. This wasn't what was supposed to be happening. It shouldn't have gone this way – had she failed? Could she do it? No. She'd failed. There were hands pawing at her clothes, and she could remember nothing, could do nothing, and everything inside of her began to writhe and coil and crumble in awful, terrible, revolting ways.

She started to cry. For real.

And when the man moved his mouth into her neck, Chiara screamed like she had never screamed before. "Stop it! Stop it!" His weight buried her further into the bed. He whispered things Chiara didn't understand – such a calm voice, like a lullaby. In her skin. Reverberating through her veins like beetles and worms through dirt. His fingers. The smell of smoke and sweat. Chiara gasped painfully, blurred through real tears and confusion and terror. "Illumi! Please! Illumi!"

Then there was blood on Chiara's face.