Blood Oath (Ruby Rose/Ares fan fic)

Twenty-nine

I look around amazed... The rich man's world is astonishing. While the rest of us mortals have to walk through the Rome-Fiumicino airport dragging a suitcase behind, dodging garbage cans overflowing with garbage, employees running frantically back and forth because half of the staff is on strike, paying an indecent amount of money for a dry sandwich and a bottle of water and bearing the heat despite the air conditioning is supposed to be turned on... we've been brought to this massive VIP Lounge with comfortable couches upholstered in cream leather and fluffy black rugs overlooking the airstrip. There're restrooms with showers, newspapers and magazines from all over the world to read, a free snack bar full of delicacies if you're hungry, several hostesses that offer personal assistance and you can check-in here avoiding the queues. Not that we need that because we're leaving Rome in Winston's private jet but they've already taken our luggage and we're waiting here comfortably till our pilot tells us that he's ready to take off. "This is nothing like that time when we wandered around Europe with a backpack," my conscience whispers.

We got up late this morning, Ares decided that we were in no hurry since there's only an hour flight from Rome to Milan. Winston had already gone very early with Sokolov but Julius waited for us to say goodbye kindly at the hotel entrance. We had taken a shower before that and packed our things, however the Assassin didn't let me to eat, just drink some coffee, saying that we'd have breakfast at the airport. I sighed, suddenly resigned to eat a tasteless and dry sandwich while I dreamt with the pancakes with extra cream that Angela could have got me from the Continental kitchen, but I have to say that I was wrong. I guess my bodyguard already knew this VIP Lounge and its excellent food: best cornetto filled with chocolate cream that I've ever eaten in my whole life... well, I ate two. And the cappuccino is absolutely perfect too.

Ares is sitting next to me reading a newspaper calmly while she sips her second espresso, the cup is very small but the coffee inside it very strong... I don't know how she manages to drink that and then keep a steady hand, caffeine doesn't affect her apparently but I guess she's used to it after all those years living in this country. She seems way more relaxed today, I don't know if it's because Dragan is history finally or because we're in Italy and this is home turf for her. After turning a page to keep reading she puts her hand on my knee absentmindedly, I don't thinks she's aware of what she's done. She's showing more spontaneous gestures of affection lately: she touches my cheeks with her knuckles after helping me to put on my jacket, she brushes my hair away from my face when she's sitting in the car next to me, she leans her hand against my lower back possessively when we walk... each one of those gestures make my heart skip a beat and, even if she doesn't seem affected by them, I feel like they give me hope. Ares is very comfortable with me and maybe there's a chance that we can keep in touch when all this is over... I just wish that we can still be friends at least because I can't stand the idea of her behaving towards me with anything but cold indifference when we occasionally bump into each other at the Continental.

"It's going to hurt when she..." my conscience starts talking but I cut it off. "I know, it's going to hurt when she leaves, could you stop repeating the same again and again?" I sigh in exasperation, I can't believe my own mind is trying to ruin my happiness. The Assassin rubs my knee absentmindedly again but keeps reading.

A middle-aged woman sitting on a cream couch on the other side of a huge coffee table is looking at us frowning, with discontent showing clearly on her face. I stare back at her confused by her attitude... I have no idea what her problem is. I look at Ares out of the corner of my eye, today she's replaced her tie for a grey silk kerchief tied elegantly around her neck, her white shirt is impeccably clean and her black jacket made of fine wool matches her pants. She's sitting with a casual attitude and her beautiful face and natural sense of style make her look like a fashion model... or a duchess... I can picture her walking with ease on a runaway in Paris or dancing around the ballroom of a Venetian palace with the same poise. I can't help smiling and she rubs again my knee before moving her hand to turn another page, when she touches me again her fingers are grazing my thigh while she's keeps focusing on her newspaper.