"He who borrows on tomorrow must pay with his grave today."
"So, you're telling me my son might be dead?"
Farooque stared at the man sitting across from the glowing orb. He rose slowly and walked over to a small cabinet where a few aged bottles of whiskey waited patiently. Pulling one out, he uncapped it and gulped the liquor down in one long draw.
The man passed his hand over the orb. "My prophecy is never wrong. Your son has left for his heavenly abode."
Farooque narrowed his eyes. "Heavenly abode?" He smashed the heavy glass bottle across the fortune teller's face. "No one from my family will ever reside in heaven."
The man clutched his face, blood spurting between his fingers. "I was only trying to be polite!"
Farooque drew his gun and aimed it between the man's eyes. "Then tell him yourself."
Crack. The body hit the floorboards with a dull thud.
The door burst open. Salman ran inside, a pistol gripped tightly in both hands. "What happened? I heard a gunshot!" His gaze fell on the bleeding corpse. He groaned. "Why do you keep inviting them here if you don't intend to let them leave alive? That's three fortune tellers this month, Farooque! Do you know how much extra I had to pay to convince this one to come?"
Farooque lowered his arm, looking hollow. "I don't care about the money. I care about my son. My own blood."
Salman stepped carefully over the body and patted his brother's shoulder. "VPS is out now. You should just talk to him."
Farooque brushed his hand away with a growl. "VPS isn't a tamed dog I can whistle for whenever I please." He grabbed another bottle, tipping it back until his throat burned. "Why don't you go bring my son back? Aren't you his uncle?"
Salman hesitated, lowering his gun. "You know how delicate the situation is right now. I'm buried in work. But if you really want me to drop everything and search for Masud, I'll go."
Farooque let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. "Don't play dutiful with me. All you do is eat and screw around. I don't even know why you need a manager—I'm paying that foreigner a fortune just to parade around behind you."
Salman rolled his eyes. "It's always the same speech with you. I don't just 'screw around.' I run your operational logistics and expand our reach across the Middle East. Joseph handles the foreign dignitaries and seals the deals I set up."
Farooque dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. "Lies. You, your manager, Mushtaq, and my addled brother-in-law are sucking me dry like leeches. Whenever I actually need someone, everyone is suddenly too 'busy' building castles in the sky. Masud was my only real hope, and he turned out to be the biggest disappointment of all. God knows what happens to this family after I'm dead."
Salman muttered under his breath, "Just die and find out."
Farooque's head snapped around, eyes blazing. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," Salman said smoothly, backing up a step. "I said nothing."
Farooque let out a long, weary sigh. "Fine. I'll send someone else to handle it."
"Who?" Salman asked, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest.
Farooque offered a cold, thin smile. "That is none of your concern." Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room.
The scent of copper mixed with cheap grain whiskey, thick enough to coat the back of Salman's throat. He stared down at the fortune teller, whose robes were slowly soaking up a dark, crimson stain against the Persian rug. That made four this month, if you counted the blind woman from Beirut who had claimed the stars were aligned for a peaceful retirement.
Farooque's footsteps faded down the marble corridor, the sharp, rhythmic snap of his heels echoing like rifle fire before dying out completely.
Salman nudged the dead man's boot with his toe. "Waste of four thousand dollars," he muttered to the empty room.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe a speck of blood off his leather watch strap, and stepped over the corpse. Outside the study, the grand hallway was cool and quiet. Sunbeams cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing lazily in the air.
At the end of the hall, leaning against a carved oak pillar, stood Joseph. The tall German wore a linen suit that remained impeccably unwrinkled despite the sweltering Middle Eastern heat. He was casually checking his fingernails.
"I take it the prophecy wasn't to his liking?" Joseph asked, his accent smooth, precise, and completely devoid of emotion.
"He smashed his head with a whiskey bottle and put a bullet in his chest," Salman said, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. "Clear the room. Get the carpet replaced—something darker this time. And tell Mushtaq to find out who Farooque is sending after Masud."
Joseph raised an eyebrow, his calm demeanor unbroken. "Your brother is taking a personal hand in the boy's retrieval?"
"He's sending an outsider," Salman said, his jaw tightening. "Which means he doesn't trust us. Which means whatever state Masud is in—dead, alive, or rotting in some desert ditch—Farooque wants to make sure we don't get to him first."
"A paranoid patriarch is a dangerous employer, Salman."
"He's not my employer, he's my brother," Salman snapped, though the lack of conviction in his voice was obvious. He looked back toward the heavy mahogany doors of the study. "Find out who he calls. If Masud is dead, I need to know before Farooque does. If the boy is alive... well, we need to make sure he stays disappointing."
Joseph gave a single, tight nod and pulled a satellite phone from his pocket. "Consider it handled."
Salman walked toward the balcony overlooking the vast estate, pulling out a cigarette. As he struck a match, his eyes swept over the sprawling manicured lawns, the armed guards pacing the perimeter, and the distant skyline of the city beyond. Farooque was right about one thing: the empire was bleeding. But as long as the old man was busy chasing ghosts and fortune tellers, there was still time to make sure the castle didn't collapse on his own head.
"Where is Masud? Where could he even be? Europe, Asia, Africa, Korea? I can't roam around the globe searching for him!"
Rahman exhaled a weary stream of smoke.
Salman rolled his eyes. "When was the last time you even stepped outside this palace? You sit in this air-conditioned room like a bloated bug while the rest of us rot in the scorching heat. You're nothing but a freeloader."
Rahman groaned, sinking deeper into his chair. "I didn't convince my thick-headed father to let my beautiful sister marry that middle-aged pig just so I'd end up crawling through the sand like a cockroach. I thought Farooque would drop dead in a few years, we'd discreetly silence Masud, you'd marry my sister, and I could live in luxury. But no. That bastard hasn't moved an inch closer to his grave, while my poor sister reached an early one. Now he's driving me to an early grave."
Mushtaq slammed his hand on the table, his voice bellowing across the room. "Would you two stop whining like babies and figure out a plan to kill Masud? If that little bastard returns alive, Farooque won't hesitate for a single second to name him his successor."
Rahman casually lit another cigarette. "It doesn't matter. Masud is a lamb. Even if he gets the reins, the real power stays in our hands. Kids these days don't care about preserving the family empire—they just want to spend the fortune."
Salman smiled, a cold, knowing look in his eyes. "And that is why no one takes you seriously, Rahman. Do you really think Farooque doesn't know his own son? He'll put VPS in charge to watch over him, and turn the rest of us into their shoe polishers. Farooque already treats VPS like a messiah—the man who brought him out of the ruins and made him rich. Our threat isn't just internal anymore; it's external."
He paused, leaning over the table. "We need a move that kills the snake without breaking the stick."
Rahman and Mushtaq leaned in, their eyes wide with eager anticipation. Even Joseph raised an eyebrow, his quiet curiosity piqued.
Salman sighed, looking at them like they were children. "We end Farooque and VPS at the exact same time. Is that concept really too complex for your simple minds?"
For a second, the room fell dead silent.
Then Joseph, Mushtaq, and Rahman exchanged a glance—and burst out laughing.
"So that's your 'kill the snake but keep the stick intact' plan?" Mushtaq smiled, shaking his head. "You want to kill a man you rarely see in person, whose whereabouts nobody even knows? You're riding the wrong horse, buddy."
Salman groaned, rubbing his temples. "If you have a better idea, please—go ahead."
Joseph finally intervened, his voice calm and steady against the mounting panic. "There is no need to hasten things. Masud's whereabouts are still unknown. Even if Farooque's spy manages to locate him, bringing him back won't be an easy task. I see no reason for us to be so worried."
Rahman smirked, settling back into his cushion. "Joseph may speak little, but whenever he speaks, he speaks sense."
Salman waved his hand dismissively. "You don't understand the situation! Right now, it's just thunder—but it won't be long before the storm hits our front door. Word has reached my ears that Ricardo Martinez is making a move with Dempsey. That Bolivian shark will soon arrive in our waters."
He stepped toward the center of the room, looking at each of them. "As I told you, our problem isn't just internal anymore. The meat is sitting out in the open, and everyone is waiting patiently. It's only a matter of time before someone grabs it and leaves us clenching empty fists."
Rahman sat up, lighting a fresh cigarette. "That reminds me. I talked with an associate, and he says Martinez is willing to work with us—if we give him fifty percent of our share. There are other terms, but they're marginal."
"Fifty?!" Salman bellowed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Is he mad? Or is your friend out of his mind to even repeat that? We're here fighting for shreds, and he wants a lion's share? Tell him to go to hell!"
"I think it's a fair deal," Rahman insisted, waving away the smoke. "Ricardo isn't going to stay here and oversee daily operations. With the remaining fifty percent, we become the sole authority on the ground. He won't even realize it when we gradually take that fifty percent back."
Salman let out a long, heavy sigh. "Would you just keep your mouth shut? Just because you're a lazy bum doesn't mean everyone else is. Ricardo has an army of people he can deploy here to oversee his interest down to the last cent."
He checked his watch, his jaw clenched tighter than before. "I have to go. But stop coming up with these foolish ideas and start finding real ways to stop Farooque from reuniting with his son."
Salman turned on his heel and strode out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him so hard the window frames rattled.
Silence fell over the room. Mushtaq, Rahman, and Joseph exchanged a look, the brief moment of laughter gone, replaced by a quiet, mounting despair.
"Is Mr. Ibrahim inside?"
Salman had slammed his car door so hard the frame vibrated. Sweat pricked his forehead as he marched toward three men in tight black suits standing like statues in the desert heat. One of them silently raised a palm, ordering Salman to lift his hands.
After a fast, unceremonious pat-down, the enforcer yanked open the rear door of a black Mercedes.
Salman scrambled inside, extending a trembling hand to the Arab man sitting in the leather interior. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ibrahim! I am extremely grateful that you decided to give me your valuable time out of your busy schedule."
Ibrahim didn't look up immediately. He slowly pressed the lit end of his cigar into an ashtray, crushed it out, and glanced down at his gold wristwatch. "Three minutes. You wasted three minutes of mine. So, you will get only three minutes now."
Panic surged through Salman. "Three minutes? Please! Listen to me—"
Ibrahim lowered his window and signaled the enforcer standing outside. "Throw him out."
The door flew open. Strong hands grabbed Salman by the collar and hauled him backward into the dirt.
"I have news!" Salman shrieked, scrambling to hold onto the frame. "I have very important news regarding your interests! It's about Martinez!"
Ibrahim held up a single finger. The enforcer froze.
"If you are lying," Ibrahim said, his voice deadly quiet, "you are not getting back in this car alive."
Salman scrambled back inside on his hands and knees, pulling the door shut behind him. "I heard a rumor that Martinez is interested in striking a deal with us! I was thinking... you could help me handle him."
Ibrahim narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "What help? You have already gulped down thirty million of my dollars with the promise of handing me the reins to the empire. Yet here we are. You haven't fulfilled your promise, and I don't have the empire. Farooque is expanding his borders, and his eyes are on my territory! If your mad brother so much as steps foot on one inch of my land, I will expose every single fraud you and your assistant committed in his name. I will tell him that you sold your inheritance to me years ago—and that you even mortgaged the palace!"
The color drained instantly from Salman's face. "Please! Don't tell anyone about that. Farooque will flay me alive!"
Ibrahim took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and slowly wiped the lenses with a silk cloth. "Then answer my question honestly. When are you going to end Farooque?"
Salman practically slid off the seat to grab Ibrahim's shoes. "I'm trying, sir! I'm trying! But that bastard is too tough, too paranoid. I promise you, you will have the empire—you just have to help me save it for you first!"
Ibrahim let out a heavy, disgusted sigh. "Every time you come here, you bring that begging face and gulp my money. How much do you need this time?"
Salman looked around nervously, whispering the number like a secret: "Only fifty million."
Ibrahim stared at him in absolute awe. "Fifty? Are you out of your mind? Thanks to your brother, I've already lost thirty percent of my trade, and now you come here to rob me of fifty million more?"
"Just think!" Salman pressed, his voice rising in desperate pitch. "With fifty million, we can buy off whoever my idiot brother hires to rescue my useless nephew! Once the boy is permanently out of the picture, taking out Farooque will be child's play! Then it's just you on one side, and Martinez on the other—"
Ibrahim raised a boot and kicked Salman hard in the chest.
Salman tumbled backward out the open door, landing flat on his back in the sand.
"Take my money, make false promises, and now you want to make me your scapegoat?" Ibrahim spat.
"No, no! I promise you'll be safe!" Salman scrambled up to his knees, clutching his chest. "I have a plan!"
Ibrahim took a slow, deep breath, staring down at him with utter contempt. "I have to talk to my brother about this." He tapped the front glass. The enforcers climbed back into the vehicle, and the engine roared to life.
Ibrahim leaned his head out the window as the sedan began to roll. "You have three days, Salman. Return my money, or show me real progress. Because on the fourth day... it will be your funeral."
The Mercedes accelerated, spitting up a cloud of dust and exhaust that choked the afternoon air.
Salman sat in the dirt, wiping the grime from his mouth as the tail lights vanished into the distance. He spat into the dust.
"One day," he hissed through gritted teeth, "I am going to smash your dirty, fat head under my shoes."
He dragged himself up, dusted off his trousers, and got back into his car, tearing out onto the road with the engine screaming...