Five weeks had passed since the sensational murder of the Archbishop, but though tongues wagged and the devout clutched their rosaries and his accomplices in positions of authority viewed every stranger with open mistrust, the police were no closer to finding the perpetrator than they had been on the day of the murder, and life in Buenos Aires went on. It was late March, now, the autumn season officially begun, and the best and brightest of Argentine society gathered together in the palatial manse of the Jefe de Gobierno for a ball to celebrate the ending of summer, and to bolster the Jefe's dwindling coffers with an influx of charitable donations from like-minded people.
Of course La Bella and the Dottore had been invited, and society was abuzz with the news that they had accepted; they were selective when it came to social engagements, and did not often dally with the political class, though their wealth and reputation made them enviable companions. It shall be a night to remember, those monied folks whispered to themselves, and of course it would be, just not for the reasons they expected.
"Oh, but you're positively glowing," Lady Hartnell gushed. Lord Hartnell was off bending the ear of some bored-looking diplomat, and Dottore had gone in search of drinks - a whiskey neat, for him, and a tonic with lime, for her. Dottore's child apparently did not share his father's fondness for drink, and alcohol made La Bella's life a misery.
"We're very pleased," La Bella allowed, smiling softly. Though the silk gown she wore - a deep aubergine in color, for La Bella knew how best to delight her husband - was cut to emphasize the swell of her breast and hide the swell of her belly it had grown impossible to keep the news of her pregnancy a secret any longer. At nearly five months gone she was no longer as lean as she had been, once, and her distaste for cigarettes and avoidance of alcohol had planted a good many suspicions in her friends' minds. She had announced the news to Lillibet, and the Countess had done the rest, and now anyone who mattered in Buenos Aires was aware that the city's most elegant couple would soon be welcoming a child of their very own.
"I'm sure you've already sorted it out for yourself," Lady Hartnell said, "but if you're in need of a good doctor, mine's the best. I would be happy to give you his information."
No doubt she would be quite happy to do so indeed; it would be a boon to her, knowing that she had provided this service to La Bella. She would be able to whisper about it knowingly, at parties just like this one; poor lamb, she would say, she hardly knew what to do with herself. Of course I knew the perfect gentleman for the job, and she's blooming beautifully now.
"Oh, I already have the best," La Bella answered. The timing could have not been better; Dottore had just arrived with their drinks, and he slid her glass smoothly into her hand before winding his arm around her waist. "He takes such excellent care of me."
"Do you mean to say, your husband is your doctor?" Lady Hartnell exclaimed, looking affronted by the very idea, but La Bella and Dottore exchanged a warm, affectionate glance, not at all perturbed by her distress.
"I can assure you, my patients receive only the highest standard of care," Dottore said. "And none more so than these two." He planted a gentle kiss upon the rise of his wife's cheek, the pair of them painting the perfect picture of wedded bliss, while Lady Hartnell tried - and failed - to hide her own bitter jealousy.
"Will you dance with me, La Bella?"
It did not take a word, or a glance, indeed took no more than a moment in her presence, for Dottore to discern that his wife had enjoyed as much of Lady Hartnell's conversation as she intended to, and he intervened at once. La Bella accepted his offer with grace, and they left their companion and their drinks at the high table in the corner, and ventured instead out onto the dancefloor, sliding elegantly into one another's arms and swaying softly to the sound of gentle strings.
"How much longer?" she asked him, her fingers toying with the soft hair at the nape of his neck while his own settled low at the small of her back.
"Not long now," he answered. Between the music and the hum of conversation their voices did not carry; even if they had, however, no one would be able to discern the true meaning of their words.
"And I can't dissuade you?" she prompted, turning her nails lightly against his skin.
"No," he said. Deftly he spun her round and then drew her in close once more. "The plans have been laid." He let his lips settle, briefly, at the corner of her mouth. "Have faith, my Bella."
"In you?" she answered. "Always."
So far, everything had gone according to plan. In the aftermath of the Archbishop's murder, and Hannibal's shocking betrayal in hiding it from her, Clarice had suggested that it might go easier for him if he shared his plans with her. At first he had been resistant to the idea, but the novelty of it moved him in the end; his Starling, once an investigator for the FBI, now an accomplice to murder, not tracking him or attempting to stop him but instead working with him, her cunning and forensics knowledge used to aid him, rather than hinder him, the final unbecoming of what once had been, compelled him, and he had given in to her demands. The next order of business on the brief list he'd drawn up was the Jefe himself, an unbearable pig whose political ideals had less to do with morality than they did with his pockets. The man was a thief and a liar, a serial adulterer and known wife beater - his wife, the hostess of this very event, was known to wear only long sleeves and a heavy layer of makeup at all times, even now - and the anti-democratic factions still very much at work in Buenos Aires had begun to court him. Should the man hold on to power, as apparently he would for several years yet, the future of their very country remained unstable. It was a most unsatisfactory circumstance for Mischa, and therefore it was one Hannibal sought to correct at once.
And it appealed to Clarice, on a certain level. She had been weaned on the legend of American democracy and the ideals of justice, and she found some solace in knowing that the death of this man might maintain peace and prosperity in the region she currently called home, and she felt his life was a sacrifice she could make for the safety, not just of her child, but all the children of Argentina.
Following their dance Hannibal had disappeared from the throng so neatly she was certain no one remarked upon it; it was vital, she knew, that no one notice his absence, but he was well practiced at hiding his movements from the hunters of the world, and she herself hardly noticed that he'd gone. For nearly a quarter of an hour Clarice made the rounds, chatting idly to her acquaintances, and when they asked after her husband she assured them he'd only gone off in search of the loo before quickly disengaging from the conversation. Such an excuse might grant a few moment's reprieve, but if he was gone much longer she was not certain their ruse would remain in place. When the Jefe's death became public knowledge, the police would interview every guest at the party, would demand an accounting of everyone's movements throughout the evening; suppose someone recalled that Dottore had been absent from the party overlong? What would become of them then?
Hannibal was not the only one who could move observed through a crowd; with a growing anxiety Clarice wove her way through the dancers, one hand pressed softly against the swell of her belly, cradling her child close. He will be all right, little one, you'll see, she whispered in the vaults of her own mind, wondering even then if her son could hear her voice, take comfort from it. The baby was always he, when Clarice thought of him; she and Hannibal had decided together to leave the child's sex a mystery until his birth, and each harbored private, disparate hopes in that regard.
At the back of the ballroom Clarice found the door Hannibal had vanished through, and slipped behind it at once, her heart pounding in her throat. The door opened onto a dark corridor, leading back to the rear of the property where the vehicles were kept. Hannibal had sent a note to the Jefe, unsigned, requesting a private audience at a pre-arranged time. The note hinted at both money and treason, and so he remained confident that his mark would be both intrigued and discreet, would not mention it to anyone. But what if he had? What if it was not one man who had met Hannibal here in the guts of the manse, but a squad of them? Suppose he'd been arrested? Suppose -
"You shouldn't be here," a soft voice whispered in her ear, even as a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, binding her in place.
"I was worried," Clarice whispered, relaxing against the warmth of her husband's chest, letting her head rest upon the breadth of his shoulder.
"So little faith, my Starling," Hannibal breathed. He must have been excited, she thought, to call her Starling in this moment; she could feel the adrenaline, the tension, the wild, racing joy of him where their bodies touched.
"Is it done?" she asked.
"Yes."
Such a simple word, and yet it meant the difference between life and death. Hannibal had intended to strangle the Jefe, bare-handed, so as not to draw a connection between this murder and that of the Archbishop. He then planned to dispose of the body by the simple means of stuffing it into the boot of the nearest unlocked car. Yes, he'd told her, and now she knew that the thing was done. Her husband had killed, again; the hand now cradling her swollen belly had only minutes before choked the life from one of the most prominent politicians in Buenos Aires. That thought should not have aroused her, but she felt her body flood with heat nonetheless, and spun to face him, draping her arms around his neck and staring up into his eyes.
A killer, she thought, cold-blooded, and dangerous. And mine.
"People will wonder where you've been," she said, but even as she spoke an idea came to her, and she could not help but grin up at him mischievously.
"What are you thinking, my Starling?" Hannibal asked, curious and, she thought, as aroused as she. His hands roamed low over her back, found the curve of her bum beneath aubergine silk, and her heart sang with expectation.
"We ought to come up with some excuse for your absence," she whispered, and then she bowed her head, and pressed her lips firmly against his neck.
Hannibal groaned, delighted, and clutched her ass tighter, rocked her against him while her mouth worked over his skin. The move was a practical one; her deep red lipstick had already left a small stain on the collar of his white shirt, and she caught his skin between her teeth, intent on leaving a more permanent sort of mark while her hands raked through his soft hair and his body hummed with pleasure.
"Such a clever bird," Hannibal whispered, and Clarice grinned against his skin, her heart now racing for another reason entirely, the recent murder all but forgotten. Kissing him like this, feeling the warmth and the hardness of him around her, his body surging with power, left her weak in the knees. It always did, knowing that this man, half-beast, half-god, was hers, and hers alone, knowing that his hands had been made to kill, and yet brought her only pleasure. Her love of him was deviance, of the most decadent kind; he had shown her that there was nothing they could not do together, cracked the world open as easily as if it had been an egg and poured the whole of it out at her feet. They were untouchable; they were free, and above the concerns of lesser men.
It seemed her attentions were having a similarly devastating effect upon him; Hannibal reached for her, suddenly, drew her face up to him so that their lips might crash together even as he sent them both hurtling back against the wall, one strong hand catching hold of her leg, encouraging her to wrap it around his waist while the silk fell back from her skin like a waterfall and his palm sought out the heat of her bare thigh.
"It would not do for me to be the only one who's mussed," Hannibal murmured into their kiss. "What sort of lover would I be, if I left my lady wanting?"
"Most inconsiderate," Clarice agreed, grinning as his hand continued its progress up her leg.
It had only just occurred to Lillibet Dufrense to wonder where La Bella and Dottore had got off to when she saw them emerge from a back corner of the ballroom, holding hands and all but glowing with their love of one another. She wound her way through the crowd to their side, intent on discerning the meaning for their disappearance, and found the answers she sought at once. La Bella's dress was wrinkled, and there was a lipstick stain on the collar of the Dottore's shirt - and a lovebite upon his neck Lillibet was certain had not been present earlier in the evening. Young love she would have named it, only they were neither of them young. Nor were they old; there was timelessness to them, and to their love, that made them seem at times to be more ghost than mortal, relics of a bygone era. Delighted by the poetic turn of her thoughts Lillibet did not tease them, and they enjoyed the rest of the party as members of the same cohort, the Hartnells and that detestable DeBurges and all the rest. They left as one, much later in the evening, and so delighted had the assembled notables been by the charming Dottore and his blooming, blossoming bride that no one noticed the absence of the Jefe at all.
At least, not until the news broke the following day.