A Family Affair
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Chapter 4.
Kenneth Irons stood before the floor-to-ceiling-length windows in his penthouse office at Vorschlag Industries, but he didn't really see the spectacular panoramic view of New York City that his vantage point afforded him.
The raised twin circles of the scar on the back of his right hand throbbed dully, letting him know that the woman who wore the Witchblade was still angry. Thankfully, it was no longer the white-hot fury he had sensed when his bodyguard and henchman Ian Nottingham had had the misfortune to threaten the well-being of a boy Sara Pezzini thought of as her nephew. The sizzling force of that ire had nearly caused Kenneth to cry out in pain, which would have been a tad embarrassing since he'd been in a meeting with Vorschlag's department heads at the time. As it was, he'd been unable to suppress a gasp of agony, and beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead as he had struggled not to writhe in his chair.
Kenneth Irons hated to sweat. The only thing he hated more than sweating was for anyone to see him sweat. That, and not being in complete and total control of every single facet of his life. Fortunately, the meeting had been winding down, so his rather hasty departure hadn't seemed too odd, or so he hoped. After all, he was a very busy and important man.
He had barely been able to wait until the rage he perceived through his psychic link with the Wielder had subsided to its current percolating resentment before calling young Nottingham for a report. A satisfied smile that didn't reach his cold, light-blue eyes turned up the corners of his sensuous lips as he thought about the ramifications of what his faithful servant had told him.
So, Sara Pezzini possessed maternal instincts. Irons had once likened the Wielder to a lioness, and apparently she was willing to defend her young with all of the considerable ferocity of that great cat. This pleased him in that he saw it as something he could possibly use to control her at some point in the future.
Kenneth allowed himself to feel a moment of pity for his bodyguard, who had borne the brunt of the Wielder's lacerating ire that morning. Ian had simply been following orders, but for some reason the very sight of the former Black Dragon seemed to tick Sara Pezzini off.
It did not help matters that Nottingham was completely socially inept. Kenneth knew that his servant's attempts to gain the lovely homicide detective's trust had failed miserably as, unfortunately, had his own. Sara knew that Ian was Irons' man, and since she didn't trust the master, the loyal servant was also looked upon with dislike and distrust. And while it suited his purposes that the beautiful Wielder felt nothing but loathing, suspicion, and a healthy dose of fear where his bodyguard was concerned -- in light of Ian's growing infatuation with her, anything else would have been unconscionable -- Kenneth Irons was becoming more and more frustrated by his own inability to win over the young woman.
Having studied her psychological profile, he knew that she found it difficult to let anyone into her inner circle. Her confidants numbered a select few, and those she did choose to befriend were first required to prove themselves worthy of her respect and trust. It galled Irons that he had thus far failed to gain the confidence and admiration of the beautiful Wielder who was the spitting image of his beloved Elizabeth Bronte, the last Wielder of the Witchblade. Here he was, a man of almost limitless wealth, influence, and power, whose Nordic good looks and urbane charm had won the hearts of some of the world's most beautiful women (and those of a few men), and he had yet to discover the means by which to seduce and thereby gain control of one stubborn but undeniably alluring New York City homicide detective.
His repeated overtures of friendship and offers to help Sara better understand how to utilize the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist had been routinely rebuffed if not met with outright scorn. People simply did not speak to him in the insolent and sarcastic manner in which Sara Pezzini regularly did. Kenneth was finding it harder and harder to hide his impatience and anger at her recalcitrance whenever they chanced to meet.
He was obsessed with the Witchblade, having once attempted to wield it himself many, many years ago. All he had to show for that moment of folly were the circular scars on the back of his hand and an often disquieting link to the current Wielder. Oh, yes, and a deceptively youthful appearance.
No, if he could not control the woman who wore the Witchblade, he simply would have to find a way to take it from her. Perhaps the next Wielder would be more pliable. Unfortunately, separating the Witchblade from its chosen Wielder was far more difficult than one would think. Legend held that the Blade would one day abandon its Wielder in her hour of greatest need. However, that could be decades from now. Until then, the Witchblade was bonded to its Wielder at a cellular level, lending her superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. It would also extend her lifespan far beyond that of a normal human being, much as it had done for him.
Although Kenneth Irons looked to be somewhere in his early to mid- 30s, he was far, far older. Wearing the Witchblade just once for mere seconds had bestowed the gift of longevity upon him. But now that the ancient gauntlet had chosen a new Wielder, the effects were slowly but surely beginning to wane. The infusions of blood that Kenneth had been receiving from the painstakingly preserved body of the former Wielder, Elizabeth Bronte, were losing their potency. Irons would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood to survive, and as matters stood, that was something she would never willingly supply him with.
The buzz of the office intercom intruded on his increasingly dark introspection. Irritated by the interruption, Kenneth crossed to the desk and stabbed the answer button.
"Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Irons, but I have Russian President Putin on your secure line. He says it is a matter of some import," his administrative assistant said.
Kenneth hesitated, partly because he was trying to decide if he felt like taking the call, partly to keep the man waiting because he could. Finally, he sighed audibly for his administrative assistant's benefit.
"Very well. Put him through, Ingrid."
"Yes, sir."
For good measure, Irons waited another few moments before picking up the phone.
"Vladimir! To what do I owe this honor?" he said in flawless Russian.
"Mr. Irons, so glad you could take time out of your busy day to speak with me," came the reply in heavily accented English.
"Please, Vlad, call me Kenneth! Have you forgotten our chess game? I believe it is your move," he said with false joviality, switching back to English.
"Hmmm. Of course I have not forgotten, Kenneth. My apologies for the delay, but I am afraid I must beg for more time before I counter. As you know, things have been a little busy at the Kremlin of late." Putin paused after that major understatement, then continued with the reason for his call. "Kenneth, something that concerns you has come to my attention."
Kenneth Irons listened with growing interest but no real alarm as the Russian president told him of a plot being hatched by one of the breakaway republics. Apparently, the military leadership of said republic had not been at all happy with the quality of the latest shipment of arms that Vorschlag Industries had supplied them with -- a transaction that, incidentally, had taken place with the complete approval of the man presently on the other end of the line. The republic's ranking general had quietly been assembling an impressive force comprised of ex-KGB agents and highly trained mercenaries from the Former Soviet Union. According to the intel President Putin had received, these men were en route to the U.S. aboard a Belgian-flagged container ship that was due to dock in New York harbor in two days. They were heavily armed and their target was none other than Irons himself.
"You have a man among these mercenaries, Vlad, do you not?"
"Of course, Kenneth."
"Can you contact him after the ship docks?"
"Yes."
"Excellent," Kenneth purred, a plan forming as he spoke. "Here is some intel that I'd like you to give him."
He proceeded to give the Russian president the name, home address, precinct, badge number, and description of a certain New York city homicide detective.
"My personal bodyguard, Ian Nottingham, is currently on assignment following her," Kenneth finished by saying. Of course, he did not say why this was, and the Russian did not ask.
"The lethal reputation of your . . . protégé is well known, Kenneth, but don't you think even he may find himself outnumbered, despite advance warning of the attack force?" the Russian leader inquired curiously.
"Who said anything about advance warning?" Irons smirked.
"You must have the utmost confidence in your man's survival skills, my friend."
"He wouldn't be mine if I didn't," Kenneth said smugly. "But, Vladimir, you must stress to your man that the woman is not to be harmed. I would be most displeased if something were to happen to her."
"Understood. Now, I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Good-bye, my friend."
Hanging up the phone, Kenneth once again went to stand before the windows, absently rubbing the circular scars on his hand.
"Watch over your precious Lady Sara well, young Nottingham," he said softly. "But watch your back, too."
More to come. I am most appreciative of feedback. Thanks for the lovely words of encouragement I've gotten so far.
Chapter 4.
Kenneth Irons stood before the floor-to-ceiling-length windows in his penthouse office at Vorschlag Industries, but he didn't really see the spectacular panoramic view of New York City that his vantage point afforded him.
The raised twin circles of the scar on the back of his right hand throbbed dully, letting him know that the woman who wore the Witchblade was still angry. Thankfully, it was no longer the white-hot fury he had sensed when his bodyguard and henchman Ian Nottingham had had the misfortune to threaten the well-being of a boy Sara Pezzini thought of as her nephew. The sizzling force of that ire had nearly caused Kenneth to cry out in pain, which would have been a tad embarrassing since he'd been in a meeting with Vorschlag's department heads at the time. As it was, he'd been unable to suppress a gasp of agony, and beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead as he had struggled not to writhe in his chair.
Kenneth Irons hated to sweat. The only thing he hated more than sweating was for anyone to see him sweat. That, and not being in complete and total control of every single facet of his life. Fortunately, the meeting had been winding down, so his rather hasty departure hadn't seemed too odd, or so he hoped. After all, he was a very busy and important man.
He had barely been able to wait until the rage he perceived through his psychic link with the Wielder had subsided to its current percolating resentment before calling young Nottingham for a report. A satisfied smile that didn't reach his cold, light-blue eyes turned up the corners of his sensuous lips as he thought about the ramifications of what his faithful servant had told him.
So, Sara Pezzini possessed maternal instincts. Irons had once likened the Wielder to a lioness, and apparently she was willing to defend her young with all of the considerable ferocity of that great cat. This pleased him in that he saw it as something he could possibly use to control her at some point in the future.
Kenneth allowed himself to feel a moment of pity for his bodyguard, who had borne the brunt of the Wielder's lacerating ire that morning. Ian had simply been following orders, but for some reason the very sight of the former Black Dragon seemed to tick Sara Pezzini off.
It did not help matters that Nottingham was completely socially inept. Kenneth knew that his servant's attempts to gain the lovely homicide detective's trust had failed miserably as, unfortunately, had his own. Sara knew that Ian was Irons' man, and since she didn't trust the master, the loyal servant was also looked upon with dislike and distrust. And while it suited his purposes that the beautiful Wielder felt nothing but loathing, suspicion, and a healthy dose of fear where his bodyguard was concerned -- in light of Ian's growing infatuation with her, anything else would have been unconscionable -- Kenneth Irons was becoming more and more frustrated by his own inability to win over the young woman.
Having studied her psychological profile, he knew that she found it difficult to let anyone into her inner circle. Her confidants numbered a select few, and those she did choose to befriend were first required to prove themselves worthy of her respect and trust. It galled Irons that he had thus far failed to gain the confidence and admiration of the beautiful Wielder who was the spitting image of his beloved Elizabeth Bronte, the last Wielder of the Witchblade. Here he was, a man of almost limitless wealth, influence, and power, whose Nordic good looks and urbane charm had won the hearts of some of the world's most beautiful women (and those of a few men), and he had yet to discover the means by which to seduce and thereby gain control of one stubborn but undeniably alluring New York City homicide detective.
His repeated overtures of friendship and offers to help Sara better understand how to utilize the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist had been routinely rebuffed if not met with outright scorn. People simply did not speak to him in the insolent and sarcastic manner in which Sara Pezzini regularly did. Kenneth was finding it harder and harder to hide his impatience and anger at her recalcitrance whenever they chanced to meet.
He was obsessed with the Witchblade, having once attempted to wield it himself many, many years ago. All he had to show for that moment of folly were the circular scars on the back of his hand and an often disquieting link to the current Wielder. Oh, yes, and a deceptively youthful appearance.
No, if he could not control the woman who wore the Witchblade, he simply would have to find a way to take it from her. Perhaps the next Wielder would be more pliable. Unfortunately, separating the Witchblade from its chosen Wielder was far more difficult than one would think. Legend held that the Blade would one day abandon its Wielder in her hour of greatest need. However, that could be decades from now. Until then, the Witchblade was bonded to its Wielder at a cellular level, lending her superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. It would also extend her lifespan far beyond that of a normal human being, much as it had done for him.
Although Kenneth Irons looked to be somewhere in his early to mid- 30s, he was far, far older. Wearing the Witchblade just once for mere seconds had bestowed the gift of longevity upon him. But now that the ancient gauntlet had chosen a new Wielder, the effects were slowly but surely beginning to wane. The infusions of blood that Kenneth had been receiving from the painstakingly preserved body of the former Wielder, Elizabeth Bronte, were losing their potency. Irons would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood to survive, and as matters stood, that was something she would never willingly supply him with.
The buzz of the office intercom intruded on his increasingly dark introspection. Irritated by the interruption, Kenneth crossed to the desk and stabbed the answer button.
"Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Irons, but I have Russian President Putin on your secure line. He says it is a matter of some import," his administrative assistant said.
Kenneth hesitated, partly because he was trying to decide if he felt like taking the call, partly to keep the man waiting because he could. Finally, he sighed audibly for his administrative assistant's benefit.
"Very well. Put him through, Ingrid."
"Yes, sir."
For good measure, Irons waited another few moments before picking up the phone.
"Vladimir! To what do I owe this honor?" he said in flawless Russian.
"Mr. Irons, so glad you could take time out of your busy day to speak with me," came the reply in heavily accented English.
"Please, Vlad, call me Kenneth! Have you forgotten our chess game? I believe it is your move," he said with false joviality, switching back to English.
"Hmmm. Of course I have not forgotten, Kenneth. My apologies for the delay, but I am afraid I must beg for more time before I counter. As you know, things have been a little busy at the Kremlin of late." Putin paused after that major understatement, then continued with the reason for his call. "Kenneth, something that concerns you has come to my attention."
Kenneth Irons listened with growing interest but no real alarm as the Russian president told him of a plot being hatched by one of the breakaway republics. Apparently, the military leadership of said republic had not been at all happy with the quality of the latest shipment of arms that Vorschlag Industries had supplied them with -- a transaction that, incidentally, had taken place with the complete approval of the man presently on the other end of the line. The republic's ranking general had quietly been assembling an impressive force comprised of ex-KGB agents and highly trained mercenaries from the Former Soviet Union. According to the intel President Putin had received, these men were en route to the U.S. aboard a Belgian-flagged container ship that was due to dock in New York harbor in two days. They were heavily armed and their target was none other than Irons himself.
"You have a man among these mercenaries, Vlad, do you not?"
"Of course, Kenneth."
"Can you contact him after the ship docks?"
"Yes."
"Excellent," Kenneth purred, a plan forming as he spoke. "Here is some intel that I'd like you to give him."
He proceeded to give the Russian president the name, home address, precinct, badge number, and description of a certain New York city homicide detective.
"My personal bodyguard, Ian Nottingham, is currently on assignment following her," Kenneth finished by saying. Of course, he did not say why this was, and the Russian did not ask.
"The lethal reputation of your . . . protégé is well known, Kenneth, but don't you think even he may find himself outnumbered, despite advance warning of the attack force?" the Russian leader inquired curiously.
"Who said anything about advance warning?" Irons smirked.
"You must have the utmost confidence in your man's survival skills, my friend."
"He wouldn't be mine if I didn't," Kenneth said smugly. "But, Vladimir, you must stress to your man that the woman is not to be harmed. I would be most displeased if something were to happen to her."
"Understood. Now, I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Good-bye, my friend."
Hanging up the phone, Kenneth once again went to stand before the windows, absently rubbing the circular scars on his hand.
"Watch over your precious Lady Sara well, young Nottingham," he said softly. "But watch your back, too."
More to come. I am most appreciative of feedback. Thanks for the lovely words of encouragement I've gotten so far.