I choose to sit on the hand-painted floral-and-gilt wood coffee table directly in front of him. Still gripping the knife, I allow it to rest lightly on my thigh. Perhaps I can muster up a little intimidation of my own. His men slip their hands into their coat pockets and move closer to us.
Again, he holds up a hand and they stop.
He rubs the fingers of his right hand together as his brows furrow slightly, a look of interest on his face. “If you put the knife away, you won’t be harmed. You have my word. I’m here to talk, not fight. As a show of good faith, I’ll tell my men to move back.” He glances at the man on his right, then the one on his left. They each take several steps backward, eyes still trained on me.
Reluctantly, I sheath the knife.
“You have quite the collection,” he says. “Priceless antique furniture and rare Greek, Roman, and early twentieth-century Americana relics. Very impressive. One wonders how you acquired such an expensive luxury apartment, complete with rare treasures, all to yourself. Most time travelers make do with much more meager accommodations.”
“Being the best at what I do comes with certain privileges. Privacy being the most important, and at the moment, you’re invading mine. What is it to you if people buy me gifts in appreciation of my skills and hard work?”
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he says. “There are powerful individuals who have a keen interest in your continued success. That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you from the GTC? If you have questions about my recent missions, you can talk to Fagin Delacroix. Her office is one level down, directly below my apartment.”
“I’m not with the government.”
From humble public houses to the crustiest upper crust salons, people have speculated for eons about the Benefactors. Everyone has a favorite theory about which famous luminaries may inhabit the secretive and rarefied stratosphere of these most powerful of power brokers.
Extreme wealth is a given; only the insanely rich could afford to finance time travel ventures. It’s not for me to judge what billionaires do with their money; let them manage their own affairs and account for their own souls. As long as some of their freedom spills into my pockets, I don’t care.
Except when one of them is sitting, menacing and uninvited, in my apartment. That, I care about a great deal.
“I’ve never met an honest-to-God Benefactor before. Funny, I thought you’d be better-looking,” I say, taking a chance that my guess is the correct one.
“Zero for two. I’m not a Benefactor, either. Call me...” He rubs his chin, apparently contemplating how to communicate exactly how influential he is without giving away anything of real value. “A consigliere.”
“A what?”
“An advisor. A fixer. Someone who assists powerful, influential people to achieve their strategic objectives.”
“So you work for the Benefactors.”
His palms turn upward and he offers a noncommittal shrug. “Powerful, influential people. We’ll keep it at that. The most important part of our conversation is what I’m about to say to you now. Listen very carefully.” He leans forward, placing his forearms on his knees as he bores craters into my soul with beady gray eyes. “The mission you’re undertaking is of critical importance to my employers. Failure would be detrimental to your future.”
“Sounds like a threat to me.”
“It’s only a threat if you don’t deliver. Consider this a friendly piece of advice: Swallow your anger. No one cares if you fucking choke on it. Get your head on straight and follow every order given without question, complaint, or attitude from now until the minute you return to base.”
A stark realization hits me squarely between the eyes. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room and I can’t breathe in the vacuum left in its place. “Is... is Fagin reporting on me?”
“Of course she is. It’s one of the tasks my employers require of her.”
Merde. She should have told me.
The Consigliere ignores my discomfort. “You must secure each item on the acquisition list, no matter how difficult it may be. If you come up short by even one artifact, you will pay dearly for it.”
“What if we refuse to play along? We’re resourceful, Fagin and me. Surviving exile wouldn’t be a problem.” The lie sticks in my throat. Truth is, aside from time traveling, I haven’t ventured much beyond the borders of the surrounding towns near our base. Why visit mundane locales when the whole of human history is your playground? The bigger problem of exile would be surviving on the run from both government forces and the Benefactors.
“Exile would be the least of your worries, my dear. Should you fail, the Benefactors won’t stop with a slap on the wrist.”
Heaviness squeezes my chest like a vise. If exile is a minor repercussion for disappointing the Benefactors...
The Consigliere motions to one of his men. The asshole holding my bra approaches and hands him a small, square, black box. A quick shot of adrenaline pulses through my body; I almost pull my knife again. Until I catch a glimpse of the phaser cradled in the bodyguard’s shoulder holster.
I’ve seen the damage phasers cause; a merc who stole from a Benefactor was cut down by one in Fagin’s tavern last year. The weapon burned a wound into his chest that started as the size of a walnut. It grew to the size of an avocado pit, the edges of the surrounding flesh glowing crimson before turning to gray ash. He was dead before he hit the floor.
The Consigliere tosses the black box into my lap.
“What’s this?” I ask, opening it. Inside is a data chip in a small plastic bag.
“Research so riveting, you’ll stay up all night studying every detail.”
“You should leave the training to Fagin.”
He stands, walks around to the back of the settee. The goons flank him on either side. They look like a pair of muscled bookends as they stand with their
