Chapter 116

Behind him is a gauntlet of security guards that are dressed in tailored black suits, with earpieces tucked discreetly into their ears. Their postures are rigid, eyes sharp, tracking every movement with a practiced alertness.
Armend’s beard frames a bronzed face, eyes sharp and calculating beneath thick, dark brows. He is dressed in custom tailored attire that exudes power and wealth. His presence emanates his quiet confidence, taking a long draw and exhaling a stream of smoke as dark wisps curl lazily from the cigar as he watches the room with a smirk.
“What a beautiful selection this quarter,” he says with a welcoming tone, then switches between two languages; the first being Tosk, a dialect spoken in the south of Albania, and the other language is Arabic.
“What?” Acheson murmurs under her breath.
I slant my head with cold curiosity. “That language, Tosk. I have heard it twice in my life. The first was during a bust of a massive Albanian arms trafficking ring. It was my last successful case before I dove back into my obsession with pursuing Zenith. And the second time I heard that dialect was when I was in a nightclub with Torin and Orian during a business deal.”
She sends me an alarmed look. “Was the guy Albanian?”
I nod grimly.
“Well, clearly it’s not him—Orian’s associate or else you would have recognised him. Besides, I’m sure there are plenty of Albanian criminals. Orian couldn’t possibly know all of them.”
“No, only the prominent ones, influential ones like Armend over here.”
My eyes leap to another man that walks in and a harsh breath escapes me.
“What?” she says, detecting my discomfort.
Shortly, she sees him. Balian. He goes to stand a few steps ahead of Armend. His eyes searching the group of girls and Acheson does that thing again, shrinking but this time she does it physically like a tortoise retracting in its shell. I sidestep so I stand in front of her and she inches behind me and suddenly her breathing becomes very audible. And to make it worse, Armend suddenly switches back to English.
“Why aren’t you all bowing?” Armend asks sarcastically with wry humour. “Don’t you know, you are all in the presence of royalty? Isn’t that right, Hadassah Moor?”
I glance over my shoulder to check on Acheson on the brink of a breakdown. There’s no time to give her rousing speech to rally her courage. So I give her arm a quick squeeze once again before I weave between each woman, snaking my way to the front like a black serpent, donning on the visage—the facade of fearlessness that turns me into something else entirely, an identity shift that has kept me alive and on top.
“There she is,” he fawns, stepping back to give me a thorough full body scan with a degrading whistle is met with aloof apathy as I incline my head at him.
“The Armenians really, what are you they saying these days—fumbled the bag? This is why my organization has outlasted my rivals because of one key thing. Meticulousness. You think just because these women are castoffs from society that we don’t run checks? It’s because of moments like this, we find a diamond in the dirt.”
I force down a flare of fury, and instead, I flaunt an arrogant smile.
“I was counting on that said meticulousness,” I respond with a scathing scan as my eyes tiptoe the length of his body with a scornful tilt of my head. “Something you saw as a strength I easily used as a weakness.”
Armend flashes a bright smile, wholly amused.
“I’m ready for my payment,” Balian announces to pull attention.
“You said you wanted one of the girls,” he says absently, addressing him, but his eyes remain hypnotized on me. “So choose.”
Balian goes forth to shoulder past those he doesn’t want for the one he does.
“Ladies, if will enter through there,” Armend says, tossing an indifferent hand towards the dark inside of a hall bordered by an intricate archway. “Hadassah, you will come with me.”
A half-scream makes my head whip to the side when I see Balian grab Acheson, yanking her closer roughly and dragging her to the front as if to present the prize he wishes to claim.
“Not her,” I declare and the crack in my voice sends a slash through the air. “She’s with me.”
Balian tugs her so hard she almost stumbles as he throws back a foreign slur. I don’t know what he said but I can tell by the way he’s nearly frothing at the mouth with a hideous scowl that it was definitely something vulgar.
I look back at Armend to see if he will back me up and he yields to my silent demand.
“Not her,” he confirms.
Balian shoves Acheson out of his grasp, and she staggers forward, holding a calm composure that not even I could undermine. I extend my hand towards her and she draws closer magnetically. When her hand is in mine, I thread my fingers with hers as Armend leads the way as Acheson and I follow hand-in-hand. Security moves impulsively, but Armend motions for them to stand down before dumping his cigar in the hands of a statuesque guard.
Armend directs us to a set of byzantine double doors before he opens them with a flourish. A room that opens into a high-ceilinged vast swath. A deluxe lounge, spacious and darkly decorated, punctuated by a distant private office. The lounge is occupied by an imposing figure seated on one of the couches with his back towards us.
“Torin Moon sent you here,” he reveals, like that statement is meant to coerce a fearful reaction from me.
“He sends his regards,” I reply nonchalantly.
“Why are you here?”
“To deliver a proposition,” I say simply.
“But why you?”
I release Acheson’s hand to slink around Armend. And I move slowly with my footsteps raptorial yet ravishing as I circle him, teasing the boundaries to tempt the imagination. His eyes follow my movements, flickering between want and wariness, though his body betrays a certain vulnerability as I close in, playing with his nerves like a puppeteer pulling strings.
“Perhaps he thinks I’m the only one who can persuade you.”
My fingertips brush lightly across the back of his neck, almost featherlike to send a shiver down his spine. And my hand trails a hand along his shoulder, making my touch both tender and unnerving, like a lover’s caress laced with poison.
“That’s a bold ask.”
I move away from him. And his hands finally slide over his own shoulders as if to chase the sensation of my presence, a subtle indication of the control I have over him—at least that’s what I thought.
“That speaks volumes,” says the mysterious man from afar. “Prostituting a woman for his own self-interests.”
Wait… I know that voice.
“That is a man I could never do business with.”
The man stands to his feet and Tomasso looks back at me with a devilish smirk. His clothes are casual yet undeniably expensive—loose, white linen shirt and trousers, an affluent and effortless style. With a sharpness in his gaze, a ruthless intelligence that belies his imperturbable exterior.
“Amore mio,” he moans lovingly. “Too long. *Sono andato troppo a lungo, affamato della vista della tua bellezza.*”