Chapter 1

Anna-Maria Callini laid out her clothes on the ottoman. Straight and neat. Blouse on top and skirt beneath. Bra on the blouse and panties on the skirt, stay-ups stretched out full-length. She set out her shoes and hung her jacket on the rack, then placed her handbag on the table. She inspected her creation for a moment, with a critical eye. A tight, steel-grey A-line skirt by Armani, a white blouse, a grey Prada jacket, and a red handbag from Louis Vuitton. Manolo Blahnik shoes with metal heels. All purchased on her most recent trip to New York, for a sum of around fifty thousand kronor. But now, in some strange way, the sight of the garments made her feel cheap. As if he would see right through this expensive façade. But at least she was prepared for the next day. She felt the stress evaporate from her body.

She pulled down the bedspread and crawled under the covers, settling on her back with a sigh. If only she could sleep – she needed her beauty rest. As she set the alarm clock she double-checked to make sure it would go off at the right time, then turned out the light. She wanted to get the night over with and see him again. It took some battling against impatience before she managed to relax, and she let her mind wander to the first time they’d met. It lingered there. As usual. Her skin began to tingle restlessly as a throbbing rose between her legs. She slipped a finger into her panties and tried getting herself off, but not even that helped.

She had made a fool of herself the first time they met, had gone weak in the knees and trembly, but she would see to it that this didn’t happen again. That was before she’d had the chance to ground herself ahead of the storm Franz Oswald blew into her life. Yet once again she had the aching sense that she was in the process of a change. It was a voice nagging in the back of her mind. The powerful woman who never backed down in a courtroom chiding the bimbo she transformed into in the presence of Oswald.

It all started when she was reading the case file and caught sight of his picture among the documents. Those eyes. Sure, she had seen him in the newspapers; his image had been on almost every newsagent’s billboard. But now that she was supposed to represent him, it had become more personal.

Even before their first meeting, she had been drawn to him like a magnet. It had continued in the car on the way to the jail: a tension headache that wouldn’t let up, a warning whisper that lingered somewhere on the periphery.

The air was sucked from her lungs when she opened the door to the room at the jail. He was sitting there with his long legs stretched out before him. His dark hair was loose over his shoulders, lending him an Adonic look. The scent of his aftershave wafted by, overpowering the odour of cleaning agents that rose from the floor.

She took a few steps forward, but suddenly felt weak and had to grab a visitor’s chair. Then came the moment she would later replay again and again in her mind: how the fabric of his T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders as he stood. Her eyes fastened on his body and wouldn’t come loose. She felt awkward even as an unpleasant thought struck her like lightning. Something about maintaining a professional distance with clients.

Once she sat down, he laid it all out: how they would take this journey together. The trial, prison time if he got any, and then they would meet on a more private level. He had promised. And then, of course, there was the mind-boggling fee he had mentioned in passing, so nonchalantly. An amount that had nearly stopped her heart. She hadn’t been able to focus as her ears buzzed, sweat broke out under her arms, and her mouth turned to cotton.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked, concerned.

‘Of course, it’s just… I think I’m coming down with a cold.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Something else just happened.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you do. What you’re feeling now is something you’ll never experience with another person.’

He gazed at the dusty jail wall. She could see the gears turning in his brain. She loved it when he looked like that. So intense. As if he was about to have a brilliant idea and solve all the world’s problems.

‘Right, well, if we put our heads together I’m sure we can win this case,’ she managed.

‘Or else we’ll short-circuit it.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Aw, I’m just kidding. We’ll do just fine, obviously.’

It was a warm, dry hand. Long fingers. His thumb fluttered against her palm like a butterfly.

With great effort, she pulled herself together. Babbled on about how they would present the case, run that Sofia Bauman through the wringer and prove that she was an extremely unreliable witness.

But Oswald smiled indulgently.

‘We’re not going to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Have you ever seen how a spider uses its web, Anna-Maria?’

She shook her head, puzzled.

‘Well, it has flies and other insects all wrapped up in its silk. At first you think they’re dead, but you see, they’re only stunned. Then one moves. Pulls on a thread. And the spider, sitting at the very top of the web, rushes over. You think it’s going to eat the fly, but no. He stuns the fly again. Paralyses it. Because it’s the spider who decides when and whom to eat. Everything in the web happens on his terms. Understand?’

She nodded, not wanting to seem dense in front of him.

‘Some female spiders let their offspring eat them up to improve the odds of their line’s survival. Talk about devotion. Not like the dimwits in ViaTerra,’ he added with a chuckle.

What he suggested then made her legs shake uncontrollably under the ugly metal table.

It had been several years since she’d devoted any energy to a relationship. Men in smart suits were usually losers, pathetic idiots who could hardly get it up. But Franz Oswald was different. He was a man with a plan.

A diabolical plan.