30-03-2019, 06:50 PM
She smiled at the tour group, exchanged some banter with the guide, and stepped toward him, clasping her hands. Another couple of steps away from the soldier and he could strike. He slipped his right hand into the pocket that contained the bottle, his left hand was cupped below the elastic cuff of his windbreaker; allowing the long shard of thick, broken glass with a crude handle of multiple layers of masking tape wrapped around the bottom to slip out of his sleeve and into it.
He was subtly unscrewing the lid of the bottle that was in his right hand when everyone in the group suddenly turned around. Someone elbowed him and the vial slipped from his fingers and dropped to the marble floor, where it shattered. The poison it once held was now a tiny puddle on the floor and he wouldn't be able to coat his blade with it now.
It was then that he noticed she was looking straight at him. He saw her eyes turn from suspicion to a look of wide-eyed recognition, followed by fear. She'd read his face and knew what he was here to do.
He'd hoped she'd get close enough to simply slash her throat from out of the crowd, but now there was no time. He stepped forward and charged her.
* * *
Contessa Helena de San Finzione saw that Jeanne was calmly unplugging the hot plate and the matter was under control. She turned again to face the tourists, whose heads were all still turned from the sudden noise, when she saw him.
He'd blended into the sea of faces before, but when every head in the room turned, his gaze had remained fixed upon her. And in his eyes, Helen saw a look she knew well from her childhood, a look she'd spent the first half of her life avoiding coming home when she saw it on his face. A look she'd run to her friends and the man she considered a real father to escape from when it came over the violent drunk who'd been responsible for her birth's eyes. A look that was the last thing her mother saw in this world before he beat her into unconsciousness and kept going until she never awoke.
Helen was well-acquainted with the look of murder in a man's eyes, and she was seeing it now. She was also familiar with the object in his hand. Some of the "uncles" who'd come by her family's home when that look wasn't in the man who was legally and technically her father's eyes would tell stories about being inside. One of them had been drunk enough one night to teach a ten-year-old girl how to make a variety of shanks. The shard of glass with a taped handle was one of them.
The man stepped forward. Contessa Helena de San Finzione stood and met the gaze of murder.
"Don't move," she commanded. Everyone in the group had turned back around and was now frozen in place. Ramirez and Jeanne were as well. Everyone except the man who kept charging her, raising the hand holding the blade.
She had nothing. Nothing to throw at him or defend herself with. She remembered asking Jeanne a few minutes before if she should be holding something when she encountered the tourists. A cup of coffee or some official-looking documents. Something to make it look like she was on her way somewhere else. She might've been able to throw the coffee cup at the man or use a thick document as some kind of weak and probably ineffective shield that still would have been better than nothing. The complete lack of anything and her expecting the command to work had thrown her off-guard enough for the man to be upon her in seconds, and she felt the blade dig into her right side beneath her ribcage.
He was subtly unscrewing the lid of the bottle that was in his right hand when everyone in the group suddenly turned around. Someone elbowed him and the vial slipped from his fingers and dropped to the marble floor, where it shattered. The poison it once held was now a tiny puddle on the floor and he wouldn't be able to coat his blade with it now.
It was then that he noticed she was looking straight at him. He saw her eyes turn from suspicion to a look of wide-eyed recognition, followed by fear. She'd read his face and knew what he was here to do.
He'd hoped she'd get close enough to simply slash her throat from out of the crowd, but now there was no time. He stepped forward and charged her.
* * *
Contessa Helena de San Finzione saw that Jeanne was calmly unplugging the hot plate and the matter was under control. She turned again to face the tourists, whose heads were all still turned from the sudden noise, when she saw him.
He'd blended into the sea of faces before, but when every head in the room turned, his gaze had remained fixed upon her. And in his eyes, Helen saw a look she knew well from her childhood, a look she'd spent the first half of her life avoiding coming home when she saw it on his face. A look she'd run to her friends and the man she considered a real father to escape from when it came over the violent drunk who'd been responsible for her birth's eyes. A look that was the last thing her mother saw in this world before he beat her into unconsciousness and kept going until she never awoke.
Helen was well-acquainted with the look of murder in a man's eyes, and she was seeing it now. She was also familiar with the object in his hand. Some of the "uncles" who'd come by her family's home when that look wasn't in the man who was legally and technically her father's eyes would tell stories about being inside. One of them had been drunk enough one night to teach a ten-year-old girl how to make a variety of shanks. The shard of glass with a taped handle was one of them.
The man stepped forward. Contessa Helena de San Finzione stood and met the gaze of murder.
"Don't move," she commanded. Everyone in the group had turned back around and was now frozen in place. Ramirez and Jeanne were as well. Everyone except the man who kept charging her, raising the hand holding the blade.
She had nothing. Nothing to throw at him or defend herself with. She remembered asking Jeanne a few minutes before if she should be holding something when she encountered the tourists. A cup of coffee or some official-looking documents. Something to make it look like she was on her way somewhere else. She might've been able to throw the coffee cup at the man or use a thick document as some kind of weak and probably ineffective shield that still would have been better than nothing. The complete lack of anything and her expecting the command to work had thrown her off-guard enough for the man to be upon her in seconds, and she felt the blade dig into her right side beneath her ribcage.
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