So, I was in the mood for a little bit of Hannibal. Got some anger to write out! You can thank Koba - glad to have some news ! - for thatplayful chapter.

She liked that double-breasted jacket; it suited him well. That beige colour enhanced the blond highlights in his hair. Funny, How Hannibal seemed to have an entire different wardrobe dedicated to travel, entirely different from his three-piece suits. As if he led a double life, or was planning to… Frances mentally shrugged; he was probably prepared to run anytime. Did he have a second passport? Was there one for her as well, or would he leave her behind?

Bah.

The concert had been flawless. Well, rectification, she had found it flawless, and greatly e, joyed it. Hannibal, on the other hand, had many things to say about the acoustics, and their placement, and the higher notes of the third cello. She was used to it by now; he never accepted anything but perfect. How he managed to put up with her was a mystery … but again, she doubted he would keep her for long.

Somehow, she couldn't see them ten years from now. Which meant that one of them was probably gone, or dead. The idea caused her to shiver, and without further ado, Hannibal shrugged his vest to lay it upon her shoulders. His warmth, double by his discreet smell permeated instantly, and Frances smiled.

— "Thank you, darling"

He simply dropped a kiss on her temple as they walked, her arm looped with his like a couple of old. Hannibal had suggested they get back to their lodgings through narrow streets rather than taking the overcrowded boat that crossed the Gran Canal. Frances couldn't agree more; she hated crowds, and loved walking more than anything.

So they had crossed Il Ponte del' Academia, leisurely, his steps mindful of her smaller ones – especially with the heels. The darkness of the Gran Canal beneath their feet, doubled with the dancing reflections of the buildings nearby set such a contemplative mood. For a moment, neither Frances nor Hannibal felt the need to converse. It was just peaceful.

They were now making their way on cobbled quays where the water level was barely a foot below. Picturesque, totally deserted at this hour, and rather funny to explore.

She hoped to God that Hannibal knew where he was going, because she was pretty lost. Give her a landscape and a map and Frances could find her way with closed eyes. But in those sharp turns and man made alleys, she got lost easily. And Venice didn't have one freaking straight streets. So she trusted her husband to bring her home.

The truth was that he knew exactly where he was … and where to go.

A sharp cry of pain suddenly echoed further up a narrow street, followed by whimpers. Hannibal released her arm at once.

— "Stay here, my beautiful."

He dropped a quick kiss on her lips and ran away, but not before she could spot the twinkle of excitement in his eyes. His silhouette disappeared at the next corner before she could realise what had happened, then her instincts took over. Frances swore and kicked her shoes away – she couldn't afford the heels to make noise. She darted as fast as she could, reaching the next corner; Hannibal's silhouette was already disappearing again. White shirt and dark slacks, he was pretty recognisable. And how the hell did he manage to remain so stealthy with his formal shoes on?

Whatever.

Panting, Frances increased her pace until she reached the next intersection.

The view that greeted her, fifty feet away, stole her breath. Hannibal stood in an alley, his poise confident. Slumped against the wall was a sobbing woman. Beside her, a bulky man crouched, clear eyes and long dark hair tied at his nape. And a few steps before that, another guy was guarding the alley, his eyes set upon Hannibal.

— "Vattene, Vecchio," the guard ordered, hoping that Hannibal would just pretend he had not seen anything.

Frances cringed at the insult; was he calling her husband an old man? He was in for a surprise … and she felt strangely invigorated, proud, even, to know what Hannibal was made of.

— "No"

Just a single word, filled with menace.

The guard started laughing; a terrible mistake. He had no clue who he was facing, and couldn't possibly guess that the well-dressed psychiatrist would end his life in a heartbeat. Frances took a few steps in the alley, hoping to salvage the situation before it went to hell. But with the oversized jacket and evening dress, she wasn't too stealthy. At once, the guard locked eyes with her.

— "Hey Fangio! Guarda ! La proxima ragazza sta satlando nelle nostre braccie. Guarda le sue capelli, mmm !" (Hey Fangio, the next girl is jumping right in our arms. Look at the long hair, mmmm").

From where she stood, Frances could see Hannibal's shoulders tense; he knew she was there. Her scent, perhaps, or the guard's words. He would be angry, but again, so was she. Her police instincts kicked in, and the woman needed to be taken care of.

— "Lasciala !", she ordered in her most official voice. "Sono la polizia." (Leave her, I'm the police.)

The thug only laughed some more; he didn't feel threatened at all by the well-dressed couple.

— "Ahha, si, si. Bella bella, alza la gonna" (Ah ha, sure, sure. Beautiful, just like up your skirt)

Frances blanched; Hannibal wouldn't leave such an insult unpunished. It felt weird, sometimes, to know that he could snap her neck, or drug her into oblivion, but defend her honour to the death. She watched the guard's fatal mistake as he launched himself forward, hoping to catch her. He was dead before he hit the ground, a blade embedded in his throat.

Frances cringed; she didn't even know if Hannibal had thrown it, or moved so fast that she had not seen it plunge the blade himself. She would revisit her memories later, because the situation was about to go mad.

Eyes widened in fear, the second thug launched himself in the battle. He was more proficient than his colleague, but no match for Tristan unleashed. Hannibal was playing, she could see it in the way he danced around the enraged Italian. Toying with his prey, taking advantage of the situation for a good shot of adrenalin, a spar to the death. And Frances watched, mesmerised, as she made her way to the sobbing woman, sticking her back to the narrow walls.

Beautiful, and terrifying at the same time. A few strands had escaped his slicked back style as he danced, feet swift, fists flying. The white shirt didn't restrain him as he landed blow after blow, there wasn't even a spot of blood upon it. Hannibal ducked, avoiding a direct to the face, then lunged for his opponent, his fists landing in his stomach. An "oof" of pain escaped the thug as he doubled over, colliding with the wall of Venezian bricks.

The end was at hand.

Frances grimaced; Hannibal didn't need help, he was winning this contest firsthand. So, keeping an eye on the fight, she walked up to the brunette who had been assaulted. She wasn't moving, nor whimpering anymore. Blood running cold, Frances reached for her neck … and found a pulse. Phew. Passed out from shock, probably. There was no blood on the woman. Relief.

A strong blow echoed in the alley, and Frances whirled around, finding Hannibal pressing his assailant to the wall, hands around his throat. He watched, with glee, the light leave the man's eyes. Seconds passed, an eternity, during which Frances knew she should stop him. But if she did, the thug would talk … denounce Hannibal, and all would be lost. His accomplice was dead already; they would face murder charges.

The Questura would probably link Hannibal's picture to the Mostro of Firenze and then…

Was it right, to let him kill this man who had no qualms attacking a woman? She was pretty sure they would have raped and killed her… Was it right, really, to let Hannibal bathe in his bloodlust and take this threat away? To let him decide who deserved to live, and who deserved to die? A vigilante.

Mesmerised, Frances watched the man she loved enjoy every second of this unexpected murder. His long fingers, whose dance across her skin made her crazy, squeezing the life out this man. His wolfish grin, the light in his eyes, more alive than ever, while his opponent's life extinguished.

She watched, and did nothing.

Until the man slumped on the floor, dead. And Hannibal approached her carefully. Did he expect her to lash out? Or was he just in warrior mode, wary, filled with adrenalin?

— "Let us go, little fairy. We can't afford Jack to find out."

That nickname; Tristan's name for her. He was still channelling the scout of the fifth century.

— "But the woman?"

— "I'll call the police on my mobile."

Frances stole a glance at her husband, surprised to find … nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. He just looked the same as ever, poised, slightly winded – no more than when they made love – and happy. It was little wonder he'd fooled so many people in the past, his peculiarity didn't show, even when he killed. The wolfish gaze had always been there, people just choose to ignore it. Aside from Will who believed it to be the remains of Tristan, and accepted it.

His brownish orbs interrogated her; Frances didn't know how to respond. So she grabbed his extended hand – hands of a killer – and allowed him to lead her away.

They retreated to gather her shoes, and decided to take another route to Piazza San Marco where they would be able to catch a taxi boat. The young woman remained stubbornly silent until they reached their lodgings; she couldn't risk anyone to overhear what she had to say. Did she even know what she wanted to say?

Her stomach was rolling, now, and Hannibal supported some of her weight up the stairs. Locking the door behind them, he led her to the fifteen-century styled sofa. Finding herself seated, Frances let her head drop into her hands.

The nausea was increasing, and she took a few deep breaths. For a moment, the house was silent. The same silence you could hear in horror movies, or deep in the night in areas where nightlife had been eradicated by civilisation.

A warm hand reached for hers and squeezed, and she found Hannibal kneeling before her.

— "You just can't help it, can you?" she whispered.

An accusation or a realisation? Unfazed, Hannibal responded calmly.

— "I'm doing the police's job. I saved that woman's life."

She knew the truth of his words, but couldn't accept it.

— "How do you know she would have died? How can you be so sure?" she scoffed, ripping her hand from his grasp.

Hannibal stood, acknowledging her need for distance. She watched, jaw agape, the dim light of the streets drew shadows upon his cheekbones. That loose strand, released during the fight, hung loosely above his right eye. How could a murderer be so glorious? So beautifully dangerous?

The spell was complete when his smooth voice caressed her ears.

— "The owner talked of a killer, he loves women with long hair."

Frances blanched, the words of the guard echoing in her mind. Look at her hair. This is why Hannibal had tensed; he knew perfectly whom he'd come across. Had he made it on purpose? Found a way, somehow, to cross paths with those killers?

Questioning him would lead nowhere, he would sidetrack her as easily as a wolf lead a lamb astray. She needed another angle.

— "Why not knock them off, and call the police?"

He wasn't even looking at her, his gaze lost in the dark waters of the bay.

— "You know why. No proof, corruption, and those guys are free again. They won't harm anyone now."

And once again, he was probably right. Time to play her last card… Her own safety. Her own moral integrity.

— "And I am a murder accomplice."

— "You already were…"

All air left Frances' lungs, and she watched, terrified, the shadows upon Hannibal's face as his sensual lips planted the truth. Mindlessly crushing what little self esteem she had managed to salvage.

— "You were a murder accomplice the moment you knew I existed and didn't denounce me."

She felt like shouting. Like shoving him through the window, destroying him, cursing him to hell and back. But there was nothing to be done; Hannibal was right. Once again, fucking right! And it enraged her!

— "It is different," she ground out.

The psychiatrist turned around, pinning her in his gaze. His whole body was just a shadow, absorbing the light from the street.

— "To the law, it doesn't make a difference."

Hannibal didn't need to elaborate on the details; Jack would have her convicted in a heartbeat if he knew she was married to the Chesapeake Ripper. It would take just one look from him for her to spill the beans.

Frances stood.

— "It makes a difference to me!" she coldly stated.

Then, she grabbed her purse, shoved her feet into her ballet shoes, and walked away from the house.