nina cried power [SPENCER REID]

two.

CHAPTER TWO:
FLORENCE, ITALY

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"Maria wasn't part of the contract."

"Yes, but she was annoying."

Nina swallows and crosses her knee over her other leg. Her legs are tanned, but the sweat between her thighs is uncomfortable, and never seems to cease. Compared to the bland Wisconsin upbringing, Italy is gorgeous, but she misses the cold.

The waitress emerges from the restaurant onto the balcony, arrives at her little circular table with her bill; it's delivered on a little side plate with a couple of mints, and Nina smiles curtly at her with red lips as the man on the phone continues to speak. Tucking her phone against her ear with her chin, she hardly listens as she fishes out some cash to pay, leaving a tip with the change in her purse.

When she tunes back in, the man is saying, "You ought to get out of town. There's whistle-blowers on our end -- they'll ruin the whole operation."

"That sounds like a you problem, my good sir."

"You're my only problem."

"And yet, here I am, waiting for your payment," she replies sarcastically. "Watch the tone, my man, or I'll be going right above your head and calling on Mr E. himself. Do you enjoy your job?"

It's an empty threat to have him fired (honestly, she doesn't care enough to go that far) -- and the man on the other end of the phone seems to tell, considering his quipped reply:

"Do you enjoy yours?"

"Of course. You should see the cash."

The man sighs, and Nina grins, half in response to his disappointment and half to the waitress who is heading towards her table now to collect the money. She doesn't actually know his name, only the name of who he works for; as far as she's concerned, he's disposable, as is every middle-man who's wired her the money and given her the names. They're rotated. She never speaks to the same guy twice.

Her contractor, Mr E. (she, much like a Spencer Reid, had signed her own none-disclosure agreement, and I shall uphold that here), is the only one she cares about.

"So things are wobbly on your end, huh?"

"We ought not to talk," says the man.

"Oh, come on, you're the only person I've spoken to in six days other than bartenders," she says. "How're things in the big U S of A?"

She steps out through the flowery arch at the doorway of the restaurant, and onto the cobblestone street of Florence, Italy: home town of the Bianchis. She'd wanted to give their family a visit, intrigued about their grief. Then the city had made her swoon. Six days later, and here she is, still exploring -- carpe diem, enjoying her youth, that kind of shit, she supposes.