10 #2
She slowly removed her sunglasses, as if revealing the twist ending of a psychological thriller. Her eyes glittered, hunting for prey. And then—an epiphany.
“Actually, you know what? You’re going to pick the man I seduce.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes yes yes. It’d be too easy if I chose. And besides, I want to shut you up once and for all. Because I know you, Bea: if I pick someone, you’ll start in with, ‘He’s too short,’ ‘He’s too ugly,’ ‘He looks like the kind of guy who writes printer reviews for fun’… No. No. No.”
She waved a grand hand in the air, brushing aside all my objections before they could form.
“Even though I don’t have to prove anything to you, I want you to point out the most untouchable man in this place. The top-level challenge Spice has to offer.”
“Uh… your confidence is really something,” I mu ttered, glancing around, still dizzy from her theatrics.
She leaned toward me, smiling. “I don’t have faith in myself,” she whispered. “I have faith in the Countess.”
So I started scanning the bar for someone who was simultaneously attractive, charismatic, and strictly out of reach—the perfect Tess-approved trifecta. But I didn’t have time to lock on a candidate before a waitress appeared, smiling professionally, order pad in hand.
“If you give us five minutes, darling,” Tess said in a honeyed voice, “our drinks will be sent over by some adoring gentleman.”
The waitress blinked at her for a second, then turned to me, visibly amused.
“My friend made a bet with me,” I explained, raising my hands in surrender. “She says she can seduce any man I point out. Since you actually work here, maybe you know the clientele better than I do. Who should we aim for?”
The waitress tapped her pen against her chin, thoughtful.
“Hmm… let me think…”
She scanned the room discreetly, like a spy in the service of flirtation.
“Married or single?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tess replied, already certain of victory .
“Single,” I cut in. “Single guys with options are slipperier than cheating husbands.”
The waitress nodded knowingly, then tipped her chin toward the swankiest corner of the bar.
“I’d recommend that one, under the Neptune painting. He’s our little king of the jungle.”
We followed her gaze.
The man in question was about thirty, with artfully messy blond hair and the athletic build of a post-college sports guy who only works out when the mood strikes. He wore a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves and the air of someone very aware he was being observed.
He sat in the most strategic spot in the place—the one Al Capone would’ve picked: back to the wall, full view of every entrance, dominant without being flashy. Two guys flanked him, laughing raucously at his every line like he was warming up for a Netflix comedy special.
He radiated that particular brand of swagger that makes you want to either challenge him… or run the other way. Or both.
“Any man will do,” Tess said coolly.
“Who is he?” I asked the waitress, still unconvinced.
She leaned in, locker-room-confidential.
“I think he’s a photographer. Fashion stuff, lingerie, glossy magazine spreads. He’s got sky-high standards. I’ve seen him brush off women who looked straight out of a perfume ad. Not saying he’s a saint, but he definitely doesn’t settle.”
She gave us both a sly smile. “Which makes him perfect for a bet. If your friend gets his attention, either she’s really good… or she’s exactly his type.”
“Hmm,” I murmured, still hesitant. “Maybe he’s a little too tough for a first try…”
“Too tough?” Tess gasped, as if I’d just insulted her family honor. “You’ve got to be kidding. Nothing is too tough for Tess Martini.”
She rose with a silent flourish, eyes locked on the target. She studied him for a few seconds, then turned back to me.
“Okay. Showtime.”
She took two bold steps forward, then stopped, glanced over her shoulder, and raised an eyebrow.
“Well? You’re coming.”
“I don’t want to get in the way…”
“In the way?” she laughed. “Sweetheart, I could do this blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.”
“Okay, okay…” I sighed, standing. I shot the waitress a half-smile of thanks.
Tess added her own farewell: “Put on a welder’s mask, darling. Forecast says sparks at table eleven.”
The waitress laughed, shook her head, and wished her luck.
Which, naturally, Tess declared she didn’t need.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked, with a thread of anxiety.
“Nothing. Just act like a normal human being.”
And with that little dart, she glided toward table eleven in full slow-motion diva mode—bold, fearless, as though a red carpet had been rolled out just for her.
I kept half a step behind—not out of shyness, but sheer respect for the staging. Stealing her spotlight now would’ve been like coughing during the Ave Maria .
When she reached the table, she stopped. Shifted her weight elegantly onto one leg, placed a hand on her hip, and, with the confidence of a femme fatale who’d binge-read too much hardboiled detective novels, looked the photographer straight in the eyes and said:
“You’ve got the straight back of a soldier… but the tired eyes of a man who’s lost every war. Am I wrong?”
Oh. My. God.
The floor could’ve opened up beneath me right then and I would’ve gone willingly.
This is it, I thought. The apocalypse has officially begun.
Her gaze was locked on his. Steady. Unflinching. Like she was reading a fascinating paragraph written at the bottom of his irises.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of hesitation in Tess. No wavering, no second-guessing, not even the shadow of doubt a normal human should feel when blurting out a line stolen from a fever-dream movie.
Christ, I thought. Forget warm-up rounds—this was an Olympic sprint.
The Countess’s gospel had rooted so deeply in her that it seemed instinctive now. She wasn’t reciting it. She was embodying it.
The transformation had been instantaneous. Total.
Maybe that’s how Napoleon felt, I thought, the first time he read Einhard’s Life of Charlemagne : shut the book, looked up, and decided to conquer Europe.
The photographer blinked. Twice.
He glanced at me, as if to check whether there was a hidden camera, then back at her. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been insulted in poetry form or hit with some revolutionary new seduction tactic.
For a heartbeat, he looked on the verge of laughing. Nervous laughter, maybe. Embarrassment.
But instead, his eyes flicked toward his friends, searching for an anchor, someone to drag him back to reality.
They, however, wore the exact same expression:
Eyebrows raised. Mouths slightly open. Eyes glued to Tess .
Masks of disbelief. Or maybe fascination. Or maybe they were just wondering if a destructive goddess with a sense of humor had just walked into the bar.
In the end, the man cracked.
A smile.
Genuine? Maybe.
Definitely awkward, but tinged with fascination.
And in that moment, I knew—for better or worse—the game had begun.
He was about to speak—probably something rational—when Tess cut him off with the solemnity of a medium in trance:
“You have the same eyes as the opium poet who left me. Long ago. I won him back by reciting Neruda while standing over an open grave.”
The man lifted an eyebrow, startled but polite, wearing that diplomatic half-smile people get when they’re caught off guard and don’t want to ruin… whatever this is.
He opened his mouth again—maybe to ask if it was a quote, maybe to check if this was a psychology test—but Tess sliced in once more:
“May I sit?”
The three men—him in the middle, his friends on either side—instinctively shifted to make room. But she didn’t move.
She’d already calculated it. Sitting there would’ve left her boxed in by the guy on the edge, and worse, it would’ve put her with her back to the room. Which would leave him in the dominant position.
Unacceptable.
So she extended a hand toward one of the outer friends, with the choreographed grace of a noblewoman requesting gallantry.
He, confused but willing, took it.
And Tess lifted him.
Literally.
With a small flick of her wrist and a sorceress’s smile, she urged him up.
He obeyed, like a tourist lured into a dance without realizing he’d just been drafted into a choreography.
Tess twirled him lightly, slipped into his seat with the sleight-of-hand of a stage magician—and a second later was exactly where she wanted: at the blonde’s side, with the whole room before her, in full narrative and visual control.
The friend she’d spun and I were left standing like two extras who’d missed their cue.
We hurried to sit as well: me in the outermost chair next to Tess, him squeezed in beside the other buddy.
The stage was set.
And Tess, of course, sat at dead center of the frame.
Tess took the blond photographer’s hand as if it were an ancient manuscript full of secrets. She examined it with intense concentration, tracing the lines with her fingertips like a fortune-teller in evening wear.
“Hands reveal everything about a man,” she murmured, as though pronouncing an inescapable fate. “Yours speak of torment… and inner storms.”
Then, suddenly, she let go. No—she flung it away with a theatrical gesture, as if his skin had burned her.
She stared at him with an air of offense, almost disappointment. “You remind me of an emotional castaway.”
The blond furrowed his brows, baffled. “Huh?”
One of his friends, behind him, discreetly twirled a finger at his temple: classic she’s nuts gesture.
Meanwhile, the third guy—the one Tess had pirouetted earlier—tried breaking the ice with me. “So, what’s your name?”
I silenced him with a wave of my hand, without even turning his way. I couldn’t afford distractions. I was witnessing something destined to enter the permanent annals of Tess Martini.
She, relentless, fixed her gaze on the blond again, eyes sharp. “You look like the kind of disaster you can’t watch… but can’t look away from either.”
Silence.
A silence so taut that even the ice cubes in the glasses seemed to stop clinking .