Chapter Text
Days like these were meant for foul-tasting cigarettes and good jazz. A dimly lit room, a band playing just loudly enough to render conversation unnecessary, and couples swaying beneath the amber glow of the chandeliers. Perhaps a pretty, daring little thing nestled against her side, stealing the occasional drag from her cigarette. A glass of something strong within reach, and not a single soul demanding anything of her.
Yes, Lorelei could think of considerably worse ways to spend an afternoon. The one she was presently enduring, for instance.
She sat behind her desk, surrounded by an increasingly tiresome collection of documents, her attention wandering somewhere far beyond the neatly typewritten pages. Absentmindedly, she reached into the inner pocket of her jacket for another cigarette, only to find the packet empty. Again.
The second packet she had purchased that week, and it had disappeared nearly as quickly as the first. She turned the flattened packet between her fingers, regarding it with mild irritation, as though its contents had personally conspired to abandon her. With a weary sigh, she tossed it aside and pulled open the desk drawer, retrieving the pipe she kept for precisely such inconveniences. If she was determined to shorten her life, she might as well do so comfortably. The prospect of an eventual death by tobacco seemed infinitely more tolerable than enduring another hour of this paperwork without it.
She packed the bowl, struck a match, and drew upon the pipe until the tobacco caught. Then, reluctantly, her attention returned to the document before her. The words were perfectly legible. That was the irritating part. The sentences were neither complicated nor particularly demanding, yet she found herself reading the same passage for the third time without retaining so much as a fragment of its meaning. Her eyes followed the lines dutifully. Her thoughts, however, had long since wandered elsewhere.
For several moments, she continued the pointless exercise, until at last she let the document slip from her fingers and settle upon the desk.
Enough.
Lorelei leaned back in her chair, allowing her head to rest against the leather. A thin stream of smoke escaped her lips, curling lazily toward the ceiling before dissolving into the stagnant afternoon air.
She watched it disappear.
The documents could wait.
For once, she simply had no desire to make sense of anything.
Her moment of peace lasted precisely three knocks.
They came in quick succession, followed almost immediately by the turning of the door handle. Fiorella Vitale had never been particularly concerned with waiting for permission, especially when she believed someone had committed an offense against basic arithmetic. “—and I refuse to approve another one of these reports until somebody explains where the rest of our profits have gone.”
She swept into the office with a collection of documents tucked beneath one arm, a fountain pen gripped between her fingers like a weapon. The door had scarcely closed before she resumed her complaint. “The returns on the warehouse investments are down again. Again, Lorelei. And do you know what those imbeciles in accounting have decided to call it? A temporary adjustment.” She gave an indignant little laugh. “As though dressing a loss in prettier language might somehow make the money reappear.”
Lorelei watched her over the rim of her pipe, saying nothing. Fiorella paced before the desk in short, impatient circles, occasionally consulting the papers in her hands before launching into another grievance. Her chestnut waves bounced against her cheeks with every sharp turn, and a faint flush had begun to spread across her otherwise delicate features. Such a pretty little thing, Lorelei thought, to possess such an extraordinary temper. There was something almost delightful about the contradiction. Fiorella had the sort of sweet, feminine face that encouraged strangers to underestimate her. An unfortunate mistake, really. Beneath those soft features lived a remarkably sharp mind and a temperament that could reduce a roomful of seasoned businessmen to apologetic schoolboys.
Lorelei had witnessed the spectacle often enough to consider it one of the more rewarding privileges of employing her. A charming little firebrand.
Under ordinary circumstances, she might have encouraged the performance with a deliberately foolish question, if only to watch Fiorella’s indignation reach new heights.
Today, she merely smoked.
Her eyes followed the younger woman’s movements, though little of what she said managed to hold her attention. Something about delayed payments, revised figures, and an accountant whose continued employment Fiorella evidently considered a personal insult.
The smoke rose in pale, languid ribbons between them. “—and if they expect me to overlook another discrepancy simply because—”
Fiorella stopped.
For a moment, she stood perfectly still, her pen suspended in the air. Her gaze had settled upon the pipe resting between Lorelei’s fingers. From there, it wandered to the overflowing ashtray, the discarded cigarette packet, and finally to the disordered collection of papers lying untouched across the desk.
Then she looked at Lorelei herself.
The faintest crease appeared between her brows. “What on earth has happened to you?”
Lorelei raised an eyebrow, mildly offended by the implication that anything particularly remarkable had occurred. Fiorella, evidently unimpressed, stepped closer.
“For the past three days, you have been behaving like a woman who’s died twice and been dragged back against her will.” Her eyes narrowed, the pen now pointing accusingly in Lorelei’s direction. “You have already smoked through an entire packet today, and now this?” She gestured toward the pipe. “Since when do you even smoke that thing?”
Lorelei glanced down at the offending object, regarding it with the same mild curiosity one might afford an unfamiliar piece of furniture. Then, with an absent flick of her free hand, she dismissed the concern. “Oh, dear. I doubt a little tobacco will be the end of me.”
Fiorella looked unconvinced.
Naturally.
Lorelei had never employed her for her willingness to accept a poor explanation.
Fiorella had just opened her mouth to deliver what promised to be another thoroughly indignant lecture when the office door flew inward, its brass handle striking the stopper with a sharp crack. Dante Vitale appeared in the doorway.
For once, the man looked decidedly less presentable than his usual charmingly disheveled self. His chestnut hair had been pushed back carelessly, his waistcoat sat slightly crooked, and the expression upon his face was one Lorelei seldom had the displeasure of witnessing.
Uncertainty.
How curious.
Dante was not a man easily unsettled. He possessed the remarkable ability to navigate disasters with the same easy composure he brought to an ordinary conversation. A missing shipment, an unfortunate business arrangement, an unreasonable client—he generally had three solutions prepared before anyone else had finished identifying the problem.
Yet here he stood, apparently having misplaced both his composure and his considerable talent for speech. “The police,” he managed, catching his breath. “They’re here.”
Lorelei’s brow rose ever so slightly. Well, now. Perhaps the afternoon was not entirely without its amusements.
“The police?” Fiorella repeated, turning sharply toward her older brother. “Good heavens, what do they want this time?”
Dante opened his mouth, but his sister had already begun answering her own question. “Oh, for God’s sake. Do they genuinely have nothing better to occupy themselves with?” She threw up her hands; the fountain pen still caught between her fingers. “Tell them to leave. Unless they have suddenly discovered something worth investigating, I refuse to entertain another one of their ridiculous little excursions through our accounts.”
Lorelei watched the exchange with a faint, almost indulgent smile. The police had become rather tedious visitors over the years. They arrived with their warrants, their suspicions, and an extraordinary confidence that this time, surely, they would uncover something sufficiently incriminating to justify their persistence. More often than not, they departed with considerably less confidence and a renewed appreciation for Fiorella’s temper.
There were few spectacles quite so entertaining as watching a young woman half their age explain, in painstaking detail, the difference between an actual criminal offense and an investigator’s wounded pride.
“I will speak to them myself,” Fiorella declared, depositing her documents upon the desk with a decidedly unnecessary amount of force. The pen, however, remained firmly in her hand. Lorelei wondered whether the girl intended to produce a legal argument or stab someone with it.
Knowing Fiorella, either was entirely plausible.
“Fiorella, wait.” Dante stepped forward, catching his sister by the arm before she could march past him.
“Let go, Dante. I have had quite enough of these people treating our offices like their personal playground.”
“Would you listen to me for a moment?”
Something in his voice brought her up short. Lorelei noticed it too. The familiar warmth had disappeared from his expression, leaving behind a strained seriousness that did not suit him in the slightest. His eyes moved briefly toward Lorelei, then returned to his sister.
“They have a warrant.”
Fiorella scoffed. “How extraordinary. Perhaps this one will prove more useful than the last three.”
“It’s not about the permits.”
“Then what?”
Dante hesitated.
A very small thing, that hesitation. Nevertheless, Lorelei found herself studying him more carefully. Dante was ordinarily economical with unpleasant information. He did not enjoy frightening people unnecessarily, nor was he inclined toward dramatic announcements. If something had gone wrong, he preferred to explain what could be done about it.
For the first time since entering the room, he appeared to have no such explanation prepared. “They have come for Lorelei.”
Fiorella went still.
“So?”
Dante swallowed.
“It’s an arrest warrant.”
“An arrest warrant?” she echoed, incredulous. “On what grounds?”
He looked toward Lorelei again. “They’re accusing her of murder.”
The word seemed to settle upon the room with an unpleasant finality. For a moment, even Fiorella was silent. Then her expression hardened. “Don’t be absurd. Whose murder?”
Dante drew a slow breath. “Cristina Wycliffe.”
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable sort Lorelei had grown accustomed to in her office, nor the brief, thoughtful pause before a difficult negotiation. This was something altogether different. Fiorella’s pen had stopped moving. Rather extraordinary, considering that Lorelei had begun to suspect the girl incapable of holding it still. Slowly, Fiorella turned toward her.
The indignation had not entirely disappeared from her features. It remained there, caught somewhere between disbelief and the first uncertain traces of genuine alarm.
“Lorelei?”
The question neither of them had quite managed to ask. Lorelei regarded the younger woman for a moment, then lowered her eyes to the pipe resting between her fingers. The tobacco had begun to burn unevenly. How irritating.
She gave it one final draw before placing it carefully upon the edge of her ashtray. Beside it lay the matchbox she had used earlier, its lid still slightly open. She closed it with her thumb. A small, insignificant gesture. Yet she found herself taking particular care with it. Across the desk, Fiorella was waiting for an explanation. Dante, too, had fallen silent. Neither appeared particularly satisfied with her response. Or rather, her complete lack of one.
Lorelei had spent enough years dealing with powerful men to recognize the value of silence. An ill-considered remark could become an admission. An expression of anger could be interpreted as guilt. Even indignation, when offered to the wrong audience, had an unfortunate tendency to acquire a meaning entirely divorced from its intention. And George-Andre Ward had always possessed a remarkable talent for making other people’s words serve his purposes. She would not be providing him with any.
With an unhurried movement, Lorelei pushed her chair back and rose.
“Lorelei, surely you are not—”
Fiorella stopped when Lorelei reached for the dark coat hanging beside the cabinet. She slipped one arm into its sleeve, then the other, settling the familiar weight across her shoulders. Her fingers moved to straighten the lapels, smoothing a crease that scarcely existed.
It was a rather fine coat.
She had no intention of allowing the police to ruin it.
“Say something,” Fiorella demanded, though the sharpness in her voice had diminished considerably. “You cannot simply let them—”
But Lorelei was already walking around the desk. She passed the younger woman with the faintest inclination of her head, a gesture so ordinary it might have belonged to any other afternoon.
Dante stepped aside. Neither attempted to stop her. Beyond the office door, the corridor stretched toward the elevators, its polished floor reflecting the pale light from the tall windows. Somewhere, a telephone rang. A typewriter continued its steady clatter. The building, apparently, had not yet been informed that its owner was about to be arrested. Lorelei found the thought mildly amusing.
She had nearly reached the center of the corridor when the elevator announced its arrival with a soft metallic chime. The doors parted. Two uniformed officers emerged first. Behind them stood George-Andre Ward. Ah, the man of the hour.
He was impeccably dressed, as always, his severe features arranged into an expression of professional composure. Yet Lorelei caught the slightest movement at the corner of his mouth as their eyes met.
Satisfaction.
Not quite a smile. George was too disciplined for anything so vulgar as openly celebrating before the formalities had been observed. But she knew the man well enough. He had been waiting a very long time for this particular privilege. Lorelei stopped several paces away, regarding him with an expression of mild, almost courteous interest. Then, before anyone could instruct her otherwise, she slowly raised her hands.
An accommodating gesture, really.
There was little point in denying a man his long-awaited triumph when he had gone to such extraordinary lengths to arrange it. George stepped forward. “Lorelei Filipovic,” he began, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly quiet corridor. “You are under arrest for the murder of Cristina Wycliffe.” Behind her, Fiorella made a small, disbelieving sound.
Lorelei did not turn. She merely extended her wrists when the nearest officer approached, allowing the cold metal of the handcuffs to close around them without resistance. George watched her closely. Perhaps he had expected an argument. An accusation. Some final, contemptuous remark upon the occasion of his victory. Under ordinary circumstances, she might even have obliged him.
Instead, Lorelei offered him nothing.
Not a protest.
Not an explanation.
Not so much as the satisfaction of hearing her speak.
And for a man who had devoted so many years to finding something he could use against her, she imagined that silence must have been terribly disappointing.