If anyone speaks Lithuanian, feel free to correct me! Thanks.

Sometimes, Will dropped Elina whenever he had an emergency. Alana was back to work, now, and the nursery didn't cover all days. Frances was glad for the company, and took care of the five months old with utmost care.

The guest room in front of her atelier had become Elina's; a tiny bed, a changing table, a set of clothes and a few bottles that Frances didn't keep in the kitchen to avoid Hannibal's frowns whenever he needed access to his beloved knifes. But despite her care, toys and cloth squares sometimes lingered in the living room. Overall, Elina was slowly, but surely earning her place in the Lecter's household.

The Keeper of Time, at first pretty awkward, was getting used to this new responsibility. Will had shown her how to change, feed and care for the girl. Now, she didn't fear dropping her anymore … even though, at first, she's enlisted Hannibal's help whenever he was close. She never had enough of seeing him with a baby in his arms.

Now, she was pretty confident she could take care of Will's daughter without breaking or traumatising her. And truth be told, those wide blue eyes that peeked at her whenever she sang were winning her heart. Mother's instincts, it seems, had kicked in. She would protect Elina if her life depended on it. Both parents were pretty grateful for her help; working odd hours wasn't easy in this world, and they could both dedicate their attention to work, knowing that Elina was safe and cared for.

Ironic, given she dwelt in the lair of the greatest killer of all times. But Frances wasn't afraid; Elina was the newest addition to the Lecter clan. If Hannibal might have had no qualms hurting Alana, or even Will if needed, he would never do anything against Elina. She was but a child, and Frances' responsibility. Hence, the wolf would keep his mate safe, and whichever cub she protected.

The baby phone was silent while Frances worked on her stitches, closing in by hand the lining on Elina's new dress. The baby's wardrobe was getting more impressive by the minute, but it was so easy to sew for such a tiny frame. Half a meter of fabric sufficed to sew a full outfit; a tiny dress, an overcoat, a pair of bloomers. Needless to say, that Alana – whose style never faltered – was pretty impressed with her daughter's clothes.

As she tied up the last knot, Frances suddenly shivered. There was a little noise outside, car doors snapping shut, but nothing out of the ordinary. A sense of dread washed over, and her head snapped to the baby phone. Nothing. Elina was still sleeping her afternoon away; a habit of hers that kept her awake until eleven at night.

Chest constricting, Frances bounded from her seat to take a peek in the street. Something was wrong. Very wrong, and she couldn't pinpoint the source of her anguish. Outside, a dark van had stopped in front of the Lecter house. Following her instincts, the young woman dashed to her phone, dialling Will as she bounded down the stairs to get her gun. Too late. The door was thrown open, and armed men flooded the entrance.

Damn! Frances took a U-turn and froze in the living room. Who were those men? If she ran upstairs, would she lead them to Elina? What if they wanted to kidnap the baby? It made no sense, but who knew? Were they here for Hannibal?

Will's voice suddenly rose from her phone.

"Hello ?"

"Will! You need to get your daughter! Quick !"

Her panic reached him effectively as she felt him start moving at once. Thank God for Will's empathy.

"What? What is going on?"

"Hands up!" came an Italian-accented voice.

Frances dropped the phone at once, hoping the plush carpet would keep it from crashing. As the device fell, face down, she studied the man who stood before her. Italian, probably, which explained the accent. And very pissed off. He seemed quite ready to kill, and his gun wouldn't give her any leeway. Another man came from the side, his jaw set and a foot taller than her. If the first man had not had his gun drawn, she might have stood a chance.

But not now. She needed to get closer to the first thug. Hands lifted, heart beating a staccato, she approached him with an innocent expression.

"All right, all right, I'm here."

Another step, and she was nearly in range for an attack. So she kept talking.

"What is this ab…"

Her nerves caught fire, the harsh pain of a taser sending her tumbling down. Her body, overloaded by electric shocks, couldn't even respond when the two men hauled her up. They dragged her outside, descending the steps of the front porch. Frances' mouth, opened in a silent cry, couldn't convey her distress as she caught a glimpse of the house where Elina was sleeping peacefully.

She wasn't too sure if she passed out or not; her nerves had taken quite a shock. All was quiet now, the rumble of a heavy diesel engine filling the space. In the dark, a smooth voice was calling to her.

"Mano graži"

Graži. Graži. Beautiful. Slowly, Frances opened her eyes, only to find Hannibal's prone form just a breath away. Her hands were bound. Shit!

Hannibal watched her warily, trying to assess if she had taken much damage. A deep cut marred his forehead, just above faint eyebrows, partly hidden in his tousled hair. The young woman gasped, and his voice once more soothed her, very low, barely discernible as he tried to quell her panic.

"Elina! Elina!", She cried out as she propped herself up. "She's all…"

Two things happened at once; the Italian henchman pushed her shoulder roughly to shut her up, and Hannibal's voice rose a notch to shush her. Her head collided with the floor and she blinked, watching Hannibal's swirling pools. He was angry, and worried, but his face showed none of it.

Italian. Right. It wouldn't do to communicate in their usual French, it was far too close to Italian. Hence the Lithuanian. And she'd nearly sold out that a little, vulnerable baby slept peacefully in their house. Damn her stupidity! Poor Elina, would she cry her eyes out whenever she woke up, yelling in the silence until her father picked her up? It was better than the alternative.

"Ji viena savo lovoje," she whispered in broken Lithuanian. (She is all alone in her bed.)

"Tylėk, graži, ji bus saugi" (Hush. She will be safe.)

"Shut it, bastardo!" the other guy boomed.

Hannibal pursed his lips in annoyance but kept his mouth shut. Damn. They couldn't even communicate! Frances longed to shift by his side, to touch him and nestle against his warm body. To make sure he was all right, at least, and not too injured. From the way his body laid on the ground, he didn't seem in too much pain.

And who were those mafiosi anyway? Had anyone discovered their chance kill in Venice? Or was it anyone else linked to Hannibal's job? Frances swallowed as she shifted, trying to appease the ache of her neck. How she hated being in the dark ! Mafiosi were renowned for their unsavoury methods of torture. Who knew what awaited them? Would she long for death soon?

Her heart rate picked up, and she returned to Hannibal's face to soothe her mind. He was humming slightly, too low for the guards to hear him, his eyes set upon her face. Seemingly impassive, but conveying a thousand words of reassurance.

At last, the stupid van started to slow down, and the noise of the road below them turned to the characteristic crunching of gravels. Over the noise, Hannibal's voice rose again, speaking quickly.

"Verger thinks you are after my wealth. Let him think so," he quickly said in Lithuanian.

Frances' eyes widened. Verger. Mason Verger! Wait until she had her hands around his fatty throat, damn that piglet ! That guy was an insult to men, and she wasn't surprised he thought her a gold digger. But what did it have to do with…

The van stopped, and the doors were flung open with strength. Light flooded the darkness, causing Frances to close her eyes an instant. As someone grabbed her from behind, Hannibal shouted at her.

"Affection is a sign of weakness, graži."

"I said shut up!"

Frances' head whipped around as she watched, helpless, the Italian guy tase her husband once again. Hannibal grunted in pain before his body went limp. Anger rose in her throat, and Frances lashed out.

"Stop it, you idiot! You're going to kill him!"

The Italian turned to her, his hat askew, taser in hand. He looked so angry, almost distressed.

"He killed Matteo, I don't care!"

Frances' heart plummeted down, and the young woman felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. So, Hannibal had managed to end another's life one again. Did he look for trouble on purpose, hoping he would be attacked? The young woman paled, watching the prone form of her beloved husband spread at the back of the van, his three-piece suit askew.

Two other men hoisted Hannibal up, and she nibbled on her lower lip. Hands bound, legs free. Alone, against four armed men. Bad odds. Affection is a sign of weakness. Frances exhaled slowly, wondering if she would ever see Hannibal again. She allowed the henchmen to drag her away into a huge mansion – it was little wonder Mason only thought about money. Keeping silent, she tried to remember the twists and turns of their path until they opened a bedroom door for her.

The room was huge, decorated with horrible taste – money, money, money – and had a king size bed. Just like Hannibal's environment was clinical, cold and laden with artefacts and pricy fabrics, this was just the contrary. Expensive for the sake of it, without any good taste, and ugly to death.

The guards were about to leave when she turned to the Italian with a hat.

"I'm sorry … mi dispiace, about Matteo," she told him, mustering her best contrite look.

The string of sympathy caused the man's pain to resurface, and she hated herself for playing with such a raw emotion. He watched her warily, taking a step back to face her.

"He didn't hesitate, digging that scalpel into his artery, right here."

And he showed her where the blade had caught his friend. Femoral. The man never stood a chance. She recognised Hannibal's playful mood, even in death. And she hated him for it. Had he even realised that his antics had put her in danger? What about Elina?

Frances allowed her face to fall as she sat upon the bed.

"Didn't think your old man was a killer, eh?" he stated.

She could have laughed at that. But the young woman chose, instead, to channel the pain. Tears rose to her eyes, and she started crying, shaking her head.

The Italian watched her, slightly embarrassed, before his gaze turned steely again.

"Well, that how it is to get an old bastard for money."

Frances didn't deny it this time. Hannibal was an old bastard, no matter how much she loved him. The door closed – locked – and she wiped the tears away with her forearm. Inelegant, but efficient. At once, the young woman stood and started circling the room. The window, hidden by a set of satin curtains, revealed a mighty drop; four floors at least. But the stuffy baroque decorations that lined up levels and balconies might offer a way out … for an experienced climber. Lucky she was wearing soft pants today.

Her window overlooked a large backyard and gardens where no plant dared growing outside its limited space. French style, controlled, dead. There wasn't anyone in sight, and it would provide cover if needed. Frances left the window to explore drawers and bathroom appliances. Her hands were still tied, and she looked for anything that might help her attack those horrible zip ties. They were tight, and looked too thick for her to break them the standard way.

A comb provided her with the ideal idea. Unfortunately, the noise of the door unlocking interrupted her research. Mason Verger stepped in, bodyguard in tow, before she could leave the bathroom altogether.

"Ah, my dear. Familiarising with the luxury of your new room, I see?"

Frances swallowed her bitterness, hands still tied, as she slowly made her way out.

"Your husband put up quite a fight. Killed one of my men. He was rather adamant that you'd be left free. You ensnared him easily…" His eyes lingered upon her, eyebrows wiggling as he added: "and I can see why".

Disgust pooled in her stomach, but Frances remained stoic. That horrible ersatz of a man was clearly overcompensating for something, and she didn't want him on her bad side. For the moment, the ties made her powerless compared to the mountain of a man that was her bodyguard.

"Why did you attack him?" she asked.

Mason smirked, his thick lips folding in the movement. Something hit her there; Mason was very, very insane. Unlike Hannibal, whose empathy was just nicked, but whose brain could rival any genius, Mason's soul was just gone. There was no poise, no control, no logic in his eyes. A child in a man's body.

"See, your husband had been very rude to me. You both have. But I'm prepared to show my magnanimity … to you."

There it was, the dripping condescendence. The idea that he, the mighty Verger, was going to do her a favour. Frances' hands shook; she wanted so badly to punch him. To erase that horrid smirk from his face. Rude! Hannibal, rude! She couldn't believe the gall of the man.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice cold.

For a moment, she nearly slipped up, revealing how worried she was for said husband. But his warning echoed in her head – affection is a sign of weakness – smooth voice erasing the grating of Mason Verger on her nerves.

"Stowed, like cattle, for the moment. But enough of him, he's not worth our time. I might have a proposal of interest."

And the leer he gave her froze her to the core. Blue eyes detailed every part of her, insisting on her cleavage with such a libidinous expression that she felt like vomiting. No! I've escaped rape as a Keeper of time in horrible times, I'm not going to allow it in this life! If he comes any closer, if he touches me, he'll meet his end by my hands.

Frances gritted her teeth.

"Save it, I don't think you can have anything of interest."

"Ow," he mocked responded. "But she stings, the little gold digger. Lucky for you, I have plenty of gold to appease you. You'll be happy here, my dear."

That fucking son of a …!

"I don't want anything from you. Just let me go."

She'd said "me" on purpose, as if she was ready to leave Hannibal behind. This is, after all, what he instructed. It didn't escape Mason Verger who was still high about his little victory. So, eyes twinkling with pride, he told her.

"I'll give you some peace, I need to prepare Dr Lecter for the grand finale. I'll save you a seat in the VIP lounge."

Dread immediately pooled in her stomach. When he left the room without flourish, Frances deflated. But she refused to sit on the bed; there was too much Verger on it, and she wondered what might have happened if … the vision of Mason Verger, all fat flesh and languid moves, touching her was enough for her to dry heave. No! She needed to focus.

The plan was pretty simple: get the hell out of dodge, grab a gun, and free her husband. Who knew in what state Hannibal was in?

There, I have found the motivation and the time to finish this !