#agodah

Bracing his arms on the basin, he met his own eyes in the mirror. This was the day he was eagerly waiting for all these years. The day when he would finally step out of the shadow of his uncle, the great Lufian Clarke and draw his own image in the mafia world. But...

I thought Clarke's scion would be smarter.

Even her previous words were an arrow to his heart. And her new words just managed to rub the right amount of salt over his wounds, successfully bothering him all over again.

If what she claims is true, if Clarke really had claimed half of his empire to her, all by his choice— Harrison groaned at the mere possibility, yet it managed to haunt him.

Was he not worth it? Hasn't he not proven his worth enough to the dead stubborn man? His grip on the marble top tightened as his teeth grit, accentuating the hollowness of his cheekbones.

She wasn't even the leader of her clan, just a top ranking member of a gang.

"A gang." The words sounded funny on his tongue. He chuckled bitterly, feeling the rising bile in his throat.

He turned on the faucet, bending over and splashing cold water over his flushed face. They weren't even a properly systemized Mafia syndicate but a semi-organized street gang, scattered all over the place.

Meeting his eyes in the mirror, again, he watched as the water ran down his face, wetting his white vest shirt. He discarded it, massaging his shoulders, trying to untangle the knots, rubbing across the silver chain that swung by his neck.

He shrugged off the remaining of his garments and stepped into the shower. The water battered his back, hammering against the taut muscles as he stood with his palms sticking against the cold wall, shutting his eyes, inhaling briskly.

No. It wasn't just her words that were bothering him.

It was all of her.

Right from the day he had first met her, Sandhya Omar was the physical manifestation of trouble.

Sandhya Omar was also his first failed mission.

Two years ago. That Casino in Vegas.

He slammed his fist against the wall, feeling the vibrations rippling through his muscles, advancing the pain through his bones.

How could he forget that night? How could he ever forget that smug look of hers? Oh, what he could have done to bang that smirk off her face!

Contrary, he did nothing and instead let her take control.

That night he lost against her in a stupid game of cards. That night he found himself crazy and desperate for her.

He brought his fist to his lips. Torn and tattered knuckles, fresh blood oozing out of them, washed by the water. He could taste it on his tongue.

That night he let her touch him, torture him in the most sweetest manner. That night her lips traced over every corner of his skin, burning through his flesh.

His gut churned at the memory.

She wasn't even the prettiest woman he had encountered. He also had a fair share of one-night stands with pretty women that he bet could compete with Helen of Troy... Even then, even after two years, she could still get him... crazy... desperate...

She didn't let him touch her but worshipped every inch of his body. She marked him all over his chest but never let a scratch corrode her skin. She got him over the edge multiple times not allowing his release, bouncing over his dick, her perky breasts dying to be caressed.

If those weren't torturous enough—oh, the noises she made, falling apart, pressed against his skin—

His cock twitched with fresh lust.

His right arm trailed down, long fingers closing around his girth. He drew in a ragged breath as his hand started pumping across his shaft. Long and slow rubs, right wrist twisting as his left hand pressed against the wall tighter, occasionally pushing back the wet curls the fell over his eyes.

Her image flashed in his head. Big black eyes staring at his clear blue ones. He tried to push it away. Only to lose all over again, pumping furiously against his hand, the veins in his arms protruding with the pressure he applied. The sound of his breathing was defeated by the sound of the shower along with the obscene squelching noises his cock made as it twitched, squeezed between his fingers.

Moving in and out of his grip, it turned wetter every passing second, soaked in his precum--sweat--water--or all three of them. He felt it spasm. With a low grunt, he came in his hand, slumping against the chilly tiles. He watched his seed wash down the drain as he rode through his orgasm, slowly stroking over his softening length.

How cruel was it to hate a person's guts with every drop of blood in your body, only to find yourself jerking off to them?

"Pathetic." He mumbled, out of breath.

***

Sandhya woke up covered in silk sheets over a mattress softer than (what she assumed) clouds. The morning sky had entered her space, tearing through the window shades, manifesting itself as streaks of orange-blue light.

She felt better than yesterday even though her sleep was improper and a faint soreness rested in the region below her neck and above her breasts. Her going-to-be-the-best-day-of-her-life-turning-dreadful rushed back into her memory lane.

Harrison Osterfield.

The way he gripped her last night. She could still feel the ghost of his arms pressed against her body.

In an attempt to calm down, she sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face, pushing back her hair, swallowing her anger.

She hated ruining her mood at the beginning of the day. He wasn't worth it. Also, her stomach rumbled with hunger.

She peeled the sheets from her body and walked up to the dressing mirror, glancing at her face. She hadn't even removed her makeup from the previous day. She didn't even remember falling asleep.

Studying her face, she irked at the smeared mascara that almost made her look like a raccoon. Her eyes stopped their trail and focused on the three faint scars she discovered over her slender neck.

They weren't there before.

Her brows pulled together as she moved closer to the mirror, bending over, trying to take a better look at them. Grazing a single finger across them, she could feel the slightly bumpy but fine red lines sketched over her light brown skin, resembling paper cuts. Or, perhaps, a very sharp knife.

That bastard.

A heated flush of irritation rose along her skin. The cuts weren't deep enough to hurt her in any manner, they would probably not even last a week, but they were enough to shake every bone in her body with fury.

Inheriting Clarke's wealth and power was virtuous enough. Having her own mafia, run after her life was the inherent vice. But working alongside a jerk...?

She didn't even realize she was clenching her jaw until she felt the tension rise to her forehead. Her fists were clenched too.

If anything, this agreement now felt more like a forced marriage. As if she were a princess married away to an arrogant, equally ignorant, self-righteous prince of a faraway kingdom.

Disgust lodged in the pit of her stomach, twisting into nausea. She tried to shrug off the ridiculous parallel her mind had just drawn.

She wasn't married to Harrison Osterfield. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a million years. Not in an eternity.

She drew in a shaky breath. Her eyes searched for the coat she had worn yesterday. Finding it lying across the foot of the bed, she picked it up, rummaging through the inside pockets, fishing out a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter.

She needed them to start her day now. Now that it was officially ruined. Breakfast could wait. She would also need to fix the way she looked. And change the clothes she was wearing especially those skin-tight jeans. She couldn't stand in them for another minute. How had she even managed to sleep in them?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she plucked a stick from the pack, languidly pressing the yellow filter between her lips and lighting the other end with the flick of her thumb over the lighter. With a long drag, she relaxed her shoulders, throwing herself on the mattress. The grey smoke filled her lungs. Her other fist unclenched.

She sunk further down on the bed, lying on her back and squeezed her eyes shut. A drowning feeling rested in the middle of her chest as the smoke escaped through her nose and from the corner of her lips.

She took another drag.

If the past day was tough, she was well aware that the passing days will be tougher.

***

Navigating through the hallways, dimly lit with yellow electric lamps, Sandhya walked on her bare feet (the cloud like soft carpets were screaming for attention), carefully studying whatever came in her path. She had woken up a household staff, getting herself something comfortable to wear. They had a huge collection of dresses and makeup supplies for a place lacking significantly in female representation. She had tossed the dresses for a comfortable hoodie, probably the softest piece of fabric she had ever worn and a pair of shorts. She was just looking to be comfortable for now.

Anyway, she continued to walk through the space, passing through numerous corridors, now bathed and feeling fresh, but hungrier than before, desperately in search of the kitchen. She walked across a trail of doors, massive, illumined by spotlights reflecting over the giant marble columns that surrounded them. Probably more guest suites. In its Godzilla like size, the mansion's symmetry of the architecture and the attention to detail made it exquisite even for the largest of free spaces. They seemed homey. Habitable.

"Wow." Her lips formed the words. Although she knew better ways to spend money than on liabilities such as these.

Merely wondering about the electricity charges or the number of staff members it required to manage a monster like this... Her head started hurting.

She paused below a giant black-and-white portrait of Lufian Clarke, steps faltering a bit. He stood tall against the wall, his fingers pressed against the side of his head. His signature grey beard was nicely trimmed, adorning his jawline, complimenting his perfectly coiffed hair. He looked elegant. He looked undead.

No wonder he was once listed amongst the greatest film stars that ever walked on Earth before parting into the mob business. Funny (not surprising), he overthrew everyone in it too!

A spark of confidence ignited in her heart. If Clarke had chosen her to be his successor, he must have seen something in her. She could be—special.

Her gaze landed on the entrance of the library that stood merely six feet away from the portrait. Just from observing it from afar, she could tell it was at least three-storeyed.

For another day. Sandhya tried to drive away from the temptation, climbing down the spiral staircase, knowing well, she would starve if she went there.

She found herself standing in the middle of an octagonal hall ignited by the giant chandelier suspended from the gold-patterned ceiling, high enough to consume three floors in their entirety. She was here last night, just was not in the condition or mood to observe anything. And now all she could sense or see was luxury. Leather sofas with embedded remotes, wall-sized TV screens, a large dining area, wall-to-wall bookshelves creating a fortress around easy chairs and lamps along with a reception area to the left corner. It looked more like a waiting room and nothing like a waiting room at the same time.

Her eyes finally landed on the silver kitchen door. She flung it open. It resembled the cooking area of a five-star restaurant more than any household kitchen. Not that she expected otherwise. But it was vacant. Clear counters, empty utensils and not a single human being at sight.

Sandhya felt relieved upon spotting a giant double door refrigerator, and a series of racks adjacent to it, seating a larger variety of loaves of bread than she could ever name.

However, it was a disappointment that the fridge only contained jelly and peanut butter apart from being packed with uncooked ingredients that couldn't be eaten raw. Even if the butter and jelly were of the superior most quality, prepared in the same space she was standing in, by the best chefs in the whole of the country, it was still a massive disappointment.

She, nevertheless, picked up a loaf, one that didn't look too fancy, slicing it with a knife. She had barely turned the lid of the jar when a voice startled her.

"The cooks will prepare fresh breakfast in a while."

Somehow she managed to not drop the peanut butter jar, turning on her feet to take a look at the intruder. A guy wearing a crisp black suit, his hair wet, red and curly, sitting over his head. He was holding a briefcase. He seemed young and somewhat familiar.

"Harry," he introduced himself, stepping closer, stretching a hand.

"Harry Holland," he presented his full name.

The switch flipped in her head. "You and... Tom--"

He cuts her off, pulling his hand back and taking a step away, "Yeah, we are brothers."

Nodding, her vision fell back on her breakfast as she assembled a sandwich. "Any idea how long they'll take to be here?"

She took in a bite, searching him for answers. He seemed to think before he fished out his phone noting the time. "Not before seven-thirty." He slid the device back in.

"And what time is it now?"

"Uhh... Six?"

She hummed, assembling another sandwich.

There was a short silence surrounding them before he decided to break it. "I... I gotta leave." He pointed at the door.

"This early?" She questioned, face contorted in confusion.

"Just some work." He shrugged.

Sandhya studied him, her look turning sour.

"See you later, I guess?" He excused himself, breaking her stance and passing a tight-lipped smile in her direction.

"Sure." She responded nonchalantly, dropping the sandwich on the plate as he walked out.

The Holland brothers, now that she had met both of them, felt a bit peculiar to her. Probably she was overthinking or she was just being careful. She slid a small knife in her clothes, the one she managed to swipe moments before.

Noticing the big window on the other side of the kitchen, she quietly walked up to it, sliding the curtains to the side, just enough to see.

A black Mercedes coupe was standing where last night the car she was brought in stopped. Harry strode towards it, telling the driver something before sliding inside the back seat. She watched carefully as the car drove around the fountain, moving in the path lined with colourful foliage, being actively trimmed and watered by two gardeners.

She dragged the curtains back when the car left the giant mansion gates, turning on the coffee machine. She pressed her palms over the counter, realizing where she was currently living in. The house where Clarke was murdered. The house where the murderer... or murderers... were roaming free, disguised as anyone among them.

A chill crept through her spine.

Pouring the hot coffee into a mug, she decided the first course of action. She must learn about Clarke's employees and their connection with him.

And she would also need Harrison's assistance for that.

She sighed heavily, her head rolling back.

Ugh.

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

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"No one comes here without my permission." He hissed, striding into the centre of the room, staring at her furtively until his gaze landed on the other parts of his office. His office was a mess. Not anywhere near how he left it. His file cabinet was open and at least twenty files were lying on the sofa and a few over his desk. There were two on Sandhya's lap as she sat with her legs crossed over each other, leaning back leisurely in one of the chairs, skimming through the papers. An empty plate and a coffee mug were also sitting on his desk. The mug wasn't even placed over a coaster. He could even see some bread crumbs scattered on the wood.

He barely managed to not lash out at her, clenching his fists. Drawing in a shallow breath, he opened his mouth in an attempt to reason with her but she was the first one to speak.

"Can you log into the system? I need to look up something." She pointed the tip of the pen at the computer placed on his desk. Her voice was far from that of requesting even if she framed it as a question.

Harrison's brows pinched, "Are you serious?!" His voice sounded so pitchy, almost resembling a train wreck about to happen.

"Yes."

That's all? His stomach rumbled with anger. She didn't even look up at him. That bland yes twisted like a snake in his gut. He was past taking orders, especially from her. So, he walked up to her, swallowing his building rage and snatched the file she was holding.

"Hey!" She squealed, trying to take it back as he pushed it over his head and out of her reach.

She rose from the chair, about to grab it when he dropped the file on the floor behind his back, scattering the papers.

"Why would you--"

"Because it's my office and those are my files! And fucking," he seethed, trying to keep his voice casual, lifting the mug from the table, "We don't eat in the study, let alone dump the scraps on the desk. Also, you didn't even use a coaster!" He groaned upon noticing the ring the liquid left on the wood before he settled the mug again on the table, only this time there was a coaster beneath it.

Her eyebrows pulled together, disbelief roaring through her head, "You are worried about the coaster--"

"The white oak---"

"The uncle was murdered in this house and the nephew is more interested in coffee stains." She squinted her eyes, shaking her head.

Harrison bit back a groan. Her words had managed to flip his stomach. He sighed keeping his conduct civil.

"As much as I am curious about Clarke's mysterious death," he spoke as calmly as he could, meeting her eyes, "We aren't even sure if he was murdered in the first place."

"You gotta be kidding me!"

"I am not kidding you!" He bit back, "And anyway, get out of here. I don't like outsiders touching my stuff," he shifted his gaze to the side, hands folded across his chest.

She scoffed, almost scornfully. "Says the one who had no problem sleeping together."

Harrison's neck snapped at the words, his temper reaching new heights. Gritting his teeth, he took a step forward, looking down at her face. "If I had known it was you, I would have never--"

"Exactly!" She snapped, "You didn't know who you were sleeping with, how do I ensure you know about the people working here?"

"That's bullshit."

Sandhya exhaled, failing to reason with him. It was harder than she had expected. So, she tried the gentler way, trying to make her words sound closer to a request, "I need you to give me access to your computer." For no avail--

"What made you think I would do that? You have already seen enough." His hands dropped from his chest and she fought back the urge to roll her eyes.

The last attempt at asking and being gentle, "Look Harrison," her voice was sweeter as if she had accepted her defeat, moving to the last resort, "You have already ruined my Plan A and now I need to know about certain things to come up with a Plan B."

"You really think you're some kind of mastermind in planning? Don't you?"

"Harrison, that was my job back then--"

"Oh. I thought your job was to seduce strangers and sleep with them." He didn't hesitate but when the words finally parted his lips, he noticed the light in her eyes dimming for a brief second, the little grin on her lips fading. His heart thumped in his throat. Perhaps, he went too far.

But what he said wasn't a lie. Perhaps, it was okay. He didn't care anyway, yet his eyes moved to her neck, somewhere-anywhere, away from her face.

Those scars on her throat fell into his line of sight. Fine red lines, shallow, peeking off from her pink hoodie. He hadn't paid much attention before but she looked cute in the outfit, a way he had never expected her to look. Her expression defied the notion though, driving his brain back to the thick air that engulfed them.

Her hand came to cover her throat, gently rubbing across the marks. He swallowed. His eyes flickered back to hers and she averted her gaze to the side. Probably, that was the closest he would ever get at marking her.

He was waiting for a reply, a sharp hit back. Instead, the air between them seemed to hum quietly. Harrison had hit the mark so blatantly, Sandhya didn't even bother refuting it. And that somehow bothered him.

She tore her gaze from him, turning on her heel. He felt the urgent need to cut the silence.

"I don't support the idea of a murderer walking among us." He spoke slowly.

He heard her sigh heavily.

"Well enough," she made up her mind, walking away from him and picking up the file, he had previously dropped, "You live in your protected shell, dreaming about sunshine and rainbows while someone stabs you in your sleep," her voice was still without heat or anger, "But you know what..."

She turned to face him again, eyes hardening, "I don't want to die or lose what I have earned so, I'm going to do something about it."

"Good luck." He muttered, eyes never leaving her figure as she stormed off the room.

***

The day was heavy on Sandhya. Checking up all the records of the people Clarke had ever worked with was more time consuming than she had thought, especially considering how her initial plan of dividing the work with Harrison went amiss.

She had navigated through whatever documents he had in his room, along with Clarke's and had taken the help of Holly to get access to their server. It would have been nicer to have her in person than on a phone but she was indeed helpful, although, Sandhya hadn't found anything game-changing. There was at least a compact list of people she had her suspicions on, though.

The library was bigger than what it appeared from afar. Probably they could shoot a Jurassic Park movie in here. Or Night at the Museum or library or whatever. She had laughed at the thought. She had also walked through all three tiers of the magnificent space, analyzing the delicately carved rosewood shelves carrying books older than time. They even had some of the original manuscripts of the classics. Unbelievable.

But now she was tired. It was over six hours, she was sitting there, skimming through all the information she could get her hands on. The mob business was full of mischief. Interacting with people you should definitely keep a six feet distance from was customary .

She sighed, shutting the library computer and keeping the files aside. Untying her hair and pressing her fingers against the pulsing side of her head, she tried to relax. A gasp left her lips. She bet she saw a shadow move outside.

Her heart stopped for a moment when the lights flickered. There was definitely someone who shouldn't be here.

Slowly, carefully, she rose from her seat, ducking down the table. Then she heard it. Footsteps. She scrambled forward, keeping low, hiding behind a pillar, drawing the knife from her clothes. She waited and waited, breathing through her nose. But no one came for her. And then it hit her.

They could be here for Harrison.

She risked a peek, looking outside the library. There was still no one in sight. The alleyway seemed dark, dead; enough to accelerate her pulse. She climbed down the stairs, one foot at a time, letting her eyes wander around the hall. Stopping and hiding behind an intersected wall, she saw it: A guy in all black, twisting the knob to Harrison's room, the haft helpless in the vice of his grip. He entered inside.

Sandhya swallowed. Her throat felt dry. She only had a knife on herself right now. Protecting Harrison at all costs was a requisite. Even when he was an insufferable jerk.

He was a team.

And she hated teamwork.

She also hated jerks.

Harrison turned in his sleep, lying over the left side of his body, hugging the silk sheets that covered him. His room was pitch black, with curtains all drawn shut. He preferred sleeping in the dark and maybe that was the reason why the silver light shining over his thin eyelids discomforted him. He wasn't a heavy sleeper and little sounds managed to bother him.

He had somehow grown accustomed to the noise his clock made. His mind erratically jumped between disconnected, unwanted thoughts whenever he sensed other sounds in his proximity. Sounds that didn't match the rhythm of his clock.

Noises of shallow breathing.

Noises of out of tune footfalls.

Out of tune...

His eyes flew open, wide, fixed on the dagger that stood three feet above his chest, reflecting the minimal amount of light his window shades failed to conceal.

He tried to kick off his sheets but the dagger lunged forward swiftly like a wild animal. He squirmed, unable to move, waiting for the impact. Only that he never felt the object pierce his body. The guy groaned, his steps faltering backwards.

Harrison unspooled himself from the sheets, quickly switching on the lamp. Leaping from the bed, hands first, he landed on his toes, squatting.

Sandhya's arms were crossed around the guy's neck from the back. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she tried to push him back.

"Don't just stand there!" She cried, struggling to hold the big guy as she pulled him backwards, pressing her forearms against his throat.

Harrison shook his head, jumping forward. His heart pounded in his chest as he hit the man over his shoulder. The guy with his face blocked out with a black woollen mask, wailed, stumbling on his feet. He slammed Sandhya's back against the window, dropping both his weapon and the whimpering girl on the floor.

Harrison tried to catch him but he ran, pushing him back, storming off the door. His eyes roamed at the door and then at Sandhya. He sighed, giving out his hand. Grabbing it, she pulled herself on her feet.

"Don't say it." He mumbled, jutting his tongue out of his compressed lips.

"Told you so." She said anyway, voice so low that only he could hear, flashing him a small grin, more of a grimace, actually. His own mouth twisted but then his eye caught the sight of his window, the shades drawn away because of the rustling. His slight frown turned into a scowl.

"Watch out--" He grabbed Sandhya by her waist, pulling her down with him, capturing her body beneath his as a gunshot blasted the window of his room, crashing, shattering the glass over them.

A moment passed in silence as they tried catching up their breath.

"Are we even?" He mouthed, manoeuvring his eye line back up to her face. She was horrified, her chest rising and falling.

"We'll see..."

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The only reason he was a part of the mafia was that he believed in Clarke's philosophy, his ideology, his way of dealing with things but with Harrison on board, was it even the same anymore?

Harrison crossed the nineteen-year-old, barging into the door to exit the room. "Ask Tom to meet me in the car at seven. And until then I don't want a single soul near myself." He stated before putting a foot out of the door.

Harry expected to hear his departing footsteps but Harrison rather took a foot back, meeting the redhead's eyes with a steady gaze.

"And from next time," He warned, "knock before you enter." And with that he left, his footsteps echoing behind him.

All Harry could do was clench his fist.

***

It was a business agreement but it felt more like a marriage. An unwanted, forceful one. One where you hated your spouse to the moon and back and yet had to lose a part of your bed, life and love.

Why would you ever do this to me, Clarke? Why would you?! The anger and frustration bubbling inside his chest were too much to handle. He had left along with Tom and had captured one of Dino's closest men.

Dino was one of their new clients and had lately caused a lot of trouble from not paying the amount he owed to actually trying to fly off Europe.

If it was for any other day, Harrison wouldn't even bother handling Dino or any of his men by himself but today he needed a punching bag. A punching bag on whom he could pour all his pent up rage out. Beat his torment off another person's bones. That made sense to him.

He had dragged the man in the dark of the abandoned warehouse— the place Dino once used as a storage for his illegal weapons. The place he had tried to erase, pretend that it never existed.

Tom tied him to the chair for enquiry but Harrison was in no mood for that. He had already made up his mind. He didn't even let the man lift up his head to comprehend what was happening before Harrison's fist made a sharp contact with his jaw, knocking him to the floor along with the chair.

Tom watched from the side as Harrison grabbed the man's shirt, now dusty and violated with stains of fresh blood mixed with spit, establishing the chair back on the cemented floor with a thud. "Ask your boss to show up, will you?" He raised his voice several octaves as if to mock him for being so weak and helpless.

With blood sputtering between the guy's teeth, he tried to speak, "I--"

But Harrison instantly cuts in, circling around his chair, "Oh wait. What can you even do? You are useless for both me and Dino. That's why Dino left you here. He doesn't give a fuck if you live or die." He halted his steps and pulled the man's hair, sharply forcing his head back, jarring his neck, painfully stretching the muscles of his throat before spatting into his face, "You hear that? You. Are. Worthless."

And then he again swung his fist across his face, just this time he didn't stop. His knuckles throbbed with the sharp collision of bone against bone. His skin turned bright blue hidden by red. God, it felt good.

"We don't wanna kill him." Tom reminded, voice laced with disgust. This was brutal even for Harrison.

"I want to." He groaned, fisting his hands in the man's shirt.

"And here I wondered, Clarke's scion would be smarter."

His neck snapped at the voice. The source of the words— the silhouette emerged from the door, her heels hitting against the cemented floor as she strolled towards the blue light that filled the otherwise dark room.

Harrison recognised the voice well, he didn't need to wait for it to materialise into human form but he also didn't want to hear it, let alone see the person whom it belonged to. Somethings are inevitable, anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Tom was the first one to speak, his eyes focused on the woman who stood just a few feet apart from them, her shoulder-length dark hair sitting as a tight ponytail, high on her head, giving her the illusion of height.

She crossed her arms over her midsection, one foot slightly ahead of the other and let out a breath. "That's not a question, you ask your boss. Especially in that tone." Her words were sharp but not her voice or tone for that matter. For an outsider or an amateur, it would appear as if she was just there to ridicule the two boys. Yeah, in some way, it was true except for the 'just' part. Both Tom and Harrison were neither an outsider nor amateurs to read into that. They knew why she was here.

Harrison asked anyway, swallowing his boiling rage, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her lips twisted into a half grin. "Well, you can ask that though."

The small laughter that followed her words made a muscle tick in his jaw. He was this close to snapping. Snapping to no avail. Snapping for vain. She had won. She had won his prize and there was nothing he could do to reclaim it. He couldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got him. No, she didn't. He reminded himself. No one could.

"I just came to check on you guys. Also, considering the fact that none of you noticed me standing right outside this room..." She looked over her shoulder, pointing a finger at the door, "Anyone could have shot you dead right there."

"And oh my god!" She gasped upon turning back to the scene, her voice infused with fake concern, "What have you done to this poor soul?"

The tension that hung between them had managed to make the muffled cries of the fourth person inaudible to the three pair of ears in the room. Maybe because he was the rat rather than the conventional elephant, people were so used to address.

"He is my client," Harrison growled, low in his throat— a thinly veiled attempt at trying to keep things civil.

"Not just yours." She corrected, flashing a small smile in his direction, more of a grimace, walking towards the man tied to the chair. The two guys watched her with narrowed, questioning eyes as she removed her coat, the draping neckline of her red top doing the bare minimum to cover anything.

She slouched across his chair, wiping the blood from the corner of his lip, softly smearing it across his cheek.

"Is this bad boy bullying you?" She momentarily shot a glance at Harrison. The man nodded, too afraid and too injured to speak.

Clicking her tongue in disdain, she gripped his chin tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she pushed the chair to the back, supported only by one of her heels. He jerked in his bonded state.

She leaned near his face, her breath tickling in his ear. "Why not better start behaving then?" She whispered, her lips brushing against the side of his face. "I don't like pretty faces as yours harmed."

Her finger traced over his lower lip, her nail scratching his wound in ways more sensual than painful. "Will you comply?" Her eyes flickered down to his lips.

He nodded instantly and desperately. He was charged up; her scent was filling his senses. When her eyes were back to his face, his slid to take a peek at her cleavage, a mixture of fear and excitement dotting his sweltering forehead with beads of sweat.

"Good boy," she muttered and dragged her foot away from the chair, installing him back to where they had started.

"P-Please..." The guy managed to utter when she moved away, urgency evident in his voice. A triumphant grin got pasted over her face in response, making her laugh at his needy request.

Harrison could bet that the guy had a mild erection even in his blood ridden pathetic state. The scene almost made him puke. Where he was using force and blood, she was using her body, sex as a weapon. Definitely not his way of working. Yet, he failed to suppress the dull tightening sensation in his abdomen—and the part below it.

She walked up to him, pulling her hair down, brushing them with her fingers. Her laughter had long subsided but its residue was still echoing in his head. He hated that. He hated her.

"Doesn't it spark old memories, Osterfield?"

His face flickered with annoyance. It was in his best interest to ignore her words.

"Let's talk over at dinner." She offered, carrying her coat on her elbow. Yeah, they very much needed to talk even when he didn't prefer it. So, he walked out of the room, waiting for her to follow.

"You should seriously take him back to wherever you picked him from." She instructed Tom as if Harrison wasn't enough for him to deal with.

***

"We had a reservation," she smiled at the hostess, "by the name of Sandhya Omar." Harrison, on the other hand, was somehow managing not to kill. Her, specifically.

The hostess smiled back, taking a glance at the register in her hand, "Welcome, Ms. Omar. Let me escort you to your table." She smiled at Harrison too. He didn't appreciate the gesture.

She led them to a table perfectly designed for two, for a date perhaps, placed on a quiet, dimly lit balcony. Harrison removed his blazer, hanging it over the chair before folding the sleeves of his beige-coloured shirt over his arms and occupying the seat. The hostess dragged Sandhya's chair, letting her sit.

She mumbled a quiet thank you.

"A waiter will be here shortly." She informed and left. She didn't lie; not a minute had passed and the waiter was already there, passing them two menus and pouring clear champagne into their flutes. Before he could proceed to light the candles decorated over the table, Harrison interrupted:

"We don't need that."

"Of course we need that, darling." She cuts in, smiling so pleasantly at him, just like a cat would smile at a canary.

It was the waiter who smiled back, at both of them, actually. "I will come back for the orders when you both are ready."

"Thank you. We will take some time, though."

"No worries, Ms. Saan—dha—ya."

"Just call me Sandy, it's fine." She shrugged away his absurd pronunciation of her name. The waiter just passed her an apologetic smile, walking away, leaving them in solitude, surrounded by nothing but luxury and privacy.

"Talk?" Harrison began.

"What?" She pretended to be clueless.

It was a game for her.

Not for him.

"You wanted to talk."

"You don't?"

He wasn't having it. So, she simply rolled her eyes, choosing to initiate. "Okay... I will start," she let out a breath, "My mob wants me dead because they want what I have inherited."

Funny, they and Harrison were on the same page.

"And you walked here alone?" He quirked a brow.

She slumped in her chair, one foot crossed over her knee, "You see, I am not alone." Her hands gestured at him.

He snorted. Ridiculous.

"You seriously think that I want you any less dead than them?"

"Yeah."

"That's foolish." He leaned across the table, elbows pressing against the wood, "I'd kill you the second I'd get the chance." He stressed certain syllables, gritting his teeth in fury. His tone dripped scorn.

"No, you won't. You need me." She stated as a matter-of-fact, straightening her back.

"You wish." He replied quickly, scoffing at her misplaced confidence.

Her phone on the table vibrated, providing them with the much needed break from cocking their verbal guns at each other. The sneer on her face vanished in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by fear as soon as her eyes scanned the glowing screen. She tapped the dial on her watch before leaning across the table.

"Listen carefully..."

He didn't.

Her hands grabbed his collar, pulling his face closer to hers, tautly stretching the fabric of his shirt, "Your life is at threat too!"

Her eyes glanced at her watch again.

"Four minutes and they'll be here." The slight flicker of the candle burning across the table animated a dance of shadows on their faces, projecting the fearful vibrations in her stomach onto the surface. "For both of us," she clarified, their face centimeters apart.

He laughed pulling himself back, not considering her words any worthy of his contemplation, smoothening the creases she had created on his otherwise crisp shirt. But she was quick to pull him again, not allowing his eyes to focus on anything else but her.

"This is no drill, Harrison." She warned, her dark eyes cold and hard and locked on his blue ones.

"In four--three minutes, there will be a smoke bomb thrown below our table, and that's our only chance to escape. Take the left side, use the pipes to climb down as quickly as possible. A car will be waiting for you at the side of the street."

He squinted his eyes in disbelief, an expression of boredom covering his face. "Why would I trust you?"

She sighed, pulling a compact case, keeping it between them, the mirror facing his side. His pupils dilated noting the reflection on it. It was the reflection of a person, holding a sniper rifle, standing on the rooftop of the building across them.

A chill crept through his heart. Their eyes met again.

In a tone that lacked any hesitation and provided no explanation, she gave away the second part of the answer, "Because Clarke didn't die... He was murdered."

Yeah, people like Clarke don't just die.

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

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The more men, the better chances of survival. It worked this way, right?

Sandhya sighed, exasperated, the flicker of the candle animating a dance on her face was seemingly more lively than her at the moment.

"We suspect, at least one of your men were involved in Clarke's murder. Also," She paused, chuckling nervously, "I won't lie, I was expecting something like this to happen but not today, not right now." She referred to the rifle aimed at them.

"I am seriously...uh... ugh..." Harrison didn't know if there were proper words in the vernacular to reply to this. All he could do was grit his teeth.

How long will this day go, anyway? What was it? The solstice? Do solstice last this long?

In his prognosis, if he had one more revelation this day, especially if it had something or anything to do with the dead man, his brain would melt and leak out of his ears. On the non-fictitious scale: He would rip off his hair or empty a loaded .44 magnum into the head of the person closest to him.

But there were his men involved in Clarke's murder? His men?

And their respectable leader, Harrison Osterfield was trapped in a life and death situation, waiting for a can of smoke to allow him to escape? And on top of that, he was taking orders from one of their enemies?

What if it was her plan? What if she killed the old man? She had inherited his fortune— it was enough of evidence for Harrison to draw that conclusion even in its scant or flimsy state. He won't be surprised if she wanted him dead as much as he wanted her to be. Or that the sniper was one of her men. Or everything happening was a part of her bigger plan.

He had a pistol tucked away in his sock, maybe he could catch her at gunpoint?

The instant he glanced at the mirror of her flapjack, she had placed between them, he discarded the idea. No avail. The sniper could easily target him.

He was fucked up.

He could hear his life ticking away.

A click of tin hitting the floor ignited the dying flame in his heart. He felt Sandhya's hand slip over his, delicate fingers tapping against the back of his hand, gliding over his square signet ring that was sitting on his middle finger for ages now, moving further away to feel his rough, wounded knuckles, he never seemed to care about.

She appeared as afraid as him. Or maybe it was part of her plan. Harrison wasn't sure if it was the mutual fear they felt or the gesture, the little ministrations she drew over the back of his hand that had managed to ease his nerves, at least for the time being. His eyes swerved up, locking with hers again, her lips forming the words he was waiting to hear.

"Now!" She screamed on the top of her voice, retracting her hand as the smoke leaked out of the can, suspending itself into the air.

Harrison leapt on cue, ducking below the table. A single shot hits the wood of the chair, he was previously sitting on.

He tried to make the best use of the blindness that the grey smoke offered, pulling the table cloth in a swift motion. The wine and the lit candles fell over the fabric, igniting a fire. The flames and the smoke rose quickly, fanned by the stiff breeze, consuming the Pinterest worthy setting in a matter of seconds as he watched Sandhya's shadowy figure hopping off from the other side of the balcony, her red heels discarded by the decorated flower pots.

In a heartbeat, the fire alarm goes off followed by another shot. The people eating in the restaurant shrieked almost simultaneously as the second shot is wasted, their screams never subsiding as they run around, knocking over things, trying to get the hell out of the building.

Amidst the mist, Harrison grabbed the railing of the balcony, hopping off it, climbing down as promptly as he could, hearing more bullets fire on the place he just abandoned.

His planned smooth landing on the freshly mowed grass goes awry as he stumbles, falling over his knee in an attempt at dodging a shot that went over right his head, almost touching his hair.

There were more gunmen. His expressions were that of horror.

He quickly rose to his feet, pulling the pistol tucked in his sock out, looking around and over his shoulder before squeezing the trigger twice.

A man dressed in the waiter's attire fell from the first floor along with his rifle, hitting the ground, crumbling next to Harrison's feet, presumably dead.

Harrison didn't check. He was sure.

Aim. He was good at it. Way too good.

He paced his way with the pistol pointed downrange, pulling the slide back with his thumb and forefinger to the street full of chaos with people running in all directions, fire alarms blaring in the background. A maroon sedan stopped abruptly in front of him, a quarter of an inch away from hitting him and transporting him directly to hell.

He opened his mouth to swear but the driver was the first to flung the door open. He had red-brown shaggy hair, probably a result of the wind and was dressed in a grey trench coat with the belt undone. His eyes were hidden behind black wraparound mirror shades, hiding most of his face.

The only thing that sparked Harrison's interest was the shotgun poorly concealed inside his coat.

"Get in." Two words, another order. The driver was definitely way older than him, he could tell by his deep, rusty voice. The driver pushed the long barrelled gun in his direction.

Harrison groaned, shoving himself into the passenger seat, accepting the new weapon, discarding the smaller gun and shutting the door behind him.

"Where is she? Where is Sandhya?" Harrison demanded, looking over at the back seat, his frown deepening into a scowl but the driver popped the car into reverse and stormed the accelerator, hard, sending him flying backwards, his back hitting against the backrest.

"She'll meet us halfway." The driver replied, his eyes never leaving the road. Harrison settled himself on the polyester seat, taking a breath before the car took a sharp turn, almost knocking his head against the window.

"Watch out!" The driver warned and Harrison peeked at the rear view mirror.

A black Escalade SUV lunged towards them at a speed higher than theirs. At least four passengers were sitting in it, two of them pushed their heads out of the windows, hands holding shotguns, aiming a shot at the vehicle he was sitting in.

They ducked down, both Harrison and the driver evading the bullets fired at them. The rear windshield blew out with a boom and a crash, spraying glass over the unoccupied backseat.

Enough.

Harrison slid his window down, ducking again when more bullets were shot at them, before aiming straight to the front tire.

He fired one— two— three shots, one followed by the other. The third one successfully hits the wheel. He watched with a triumphant grin pasted over his face as the attacker's car tumbled, crashing against the telephone pole, now motionless.

But his grin didn't last long when they crossed the intersection. Two more cars emerged from the two sides, the same model as the one he had just shot down.

The panic was real this time. He could even hear police sirens.

What the actual fuck?

"We need to hurry!" Harrison instructed, restless in his seat, watching the black SUVs and the white police cruisers, red sirens blazing on their head, racing behind them.

It was a real chase.

They zoomed through the street, feeling alternately light and heavy as they shifted in their seats, leaning right and left as the roads forked as they sailed through the busy traffic, ignoring the honking cars, even honking themselves. The buildings, streets and the traffic began to blur as they raced down, veering frantically to avoid their pursuers.

A ray of hope: Another intersection. The signal was three seconds into turning red.

Perfect.

"You can do this..." Harrison whispered like a prayer, eyes glimmering with hope, focusing more on the road than the man operating the steering he knew nothing about, except for his remarkable prowess as a getaway driver.

You can do this!

The driver panted, breathing with his mouth as he puts the car into the sixth gear, pressing the accelerator as hard as he could, flooring the sedan through the blinking signal, it turning red the exact moment they tear through it.

The pedestrian cars came to a halt upon the red signal, breaking hard, forming a chain, successfully blocking the way of both the attackers and the cops.

The driver barked out a laugh, the type falling more into the category of a chortle than an actual laugh (not that Harrison cared), taking off his shades, shoving them inside his coat, a proud smile plastered on his face as he weaves from lane to lane, disappearing under a bridge, finally stepping on to the much calmer highway.

"Kevin." The driver muttered.

"Huh?" Harrison responded with a questioning look. The guy was at least fifty-five years old, Harrison could tell now. His natural grey hair stood in contrast with his dyed copper ones, adding to his overall charm. His adventurous demeanour has previously mistaken him for being any younger.

Stretching a left hand, "My name is Kevin," the driver clarified, his light brown eyes meeting momentarily with Harrison's blue ones.

Harrison nodded, putting away his gun, wiping the sweat on his palm over his pants, before taking his hand for a brief shake.

"Harrison," He offered his own name.

"I know," Kevin replied nonchalantly, shifting his focus back to the road.

The blond turned to the other side, head leading against the headrest, glancing out of the window, watching the scenery move backwards, carefree as a lark for once, until the driver slowed the vehicle down, parking at the side, near a divergence where a 91' Accord waited for them.

He leapt out of the car. Harrison followed suit.

Taking the back seat of the switch car, alongside a woman that wasn't Sandhya, Kevin slumped into the cushions, stretching his hands over his head, shutting his eyes, probably tired (of course), taking the much needed break. The woman, on the other hand, was busy typing away on her laptop, wired headphones tucked into her ears.

Another man emerged from the passenger seat, passing Harrison on the way, his face invisible in the dim highway lights, taking the maroon sedan. Harrison replaced him, getting into the switch car, sitting on the front, the only seat that was left unoccupied.

"Welcome back." The voice on the driver's seat greeted him.

Sandhya.

Harrison snorted, choosing not to turn his neck to meet her face and rather settling on passing a mere glance at her with a side eye.

She was back to wearing her coat, raven hair whipped by the wind, loose strands sticking over her face, her makeup no longer intact and slightly greasy, except for her bold red lipstick, sitting over her smiling mouth, complimenting her smooth dusky skin.

She pulled the gear, pressing on the pedal, putting the car in motion, its engine roaring for a full minute, her right hand on the wheel, left hand ceaselessly turning the dial of the radio back and forth, till Blinding Lights echoed from the speakers. She kept the volume low, possibly because of the other woman busy on her laptop, definitely because of the man dozing off, sitting behind them. But that didn't stop her from mouthing the lyrics or sway her body with the tunes.

Harrison looked away, outside the window, head slightly out, chin pressed against one of his hands he had kept over the window edge, feeling the cold air hit his face harder when she shifted the gear, speeding off the vehicle.

A ghost of a smile flickered over his lips, the upbeat music filling his ears.

He had different plans...

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

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Probably he could have gotten shot or stabbed. And like such dramatic events unfold in movies, he expected a similar sequence of events to happen to him. An action hero returning from a life-threatening mission but he didn't notice the bullet wound piercing the side of his abdomen and when he touches the spot, his hands would be dripping with that infamous red fluid and then he would hit the ground and die in the pool of his own blood.

Nah, Harrison wasn't this lucky. Someone, for sure, died today but it wasn't him.

His eyes roamed, capturing every single of the eleven people standing in front of him. Nine furious killers, one receptionist and one secretary. All of them having the same silent expression taped on their faces. He caught the eye of his first in command— Thomas Holland. But Tom just stood there with his hands clasped to his front and head slightly bent down. That was enough to piss him off.

It didn't take him long to notice the only major person missing from the scene. With gritted teeth, he swallowed his spit. "Where the hell is Clarke?" His tone wasn't any close to yelling but it for sure was full of venom.

"Sir..." Felicity, Clarke's secretary, stepped forward but Harrison stopped her with his hand in the air. He didn't care about turning in her direction, letting only his eyes to glance at her sideways, accompanied by a raised brow.

"No bullshit. Just straight to the point." Harrison demanded, words strictly separated with clear pauses.

"I am sorry, Mister Osterfield--"

Harrison hissed at the five unnecessary words she chose to initiate her sentence with, halting her abruptly altogether. The girl was definitely terrified.

His repetitive attempts to establish his dominance over everyone. Tom hated it to his guts. Luckily, Harrison's attitude never terrified him, so he stepped forward, shielding Felicity, making Harrison's tough gaze fall on his tougher one.

"Lufian Clarke was found dead in his room at 10 am, this morning." There was no ounce of hesitation on Tom's face.

Harrison's eyes slightly narrowed at Tom's declaration but the words failed to make immediate sense in his head. He noted the time on the clock above the reception.

11:13 am

He wanted to laugh.

As stupid as it may sound, Harrison had never considered his uncle to be the type that would ever die, especially in his own bed, refusing to wake up one morning. But death was inevitable. But that man also took two shots to his chest and came out alive.

Harrison refused to believe. That bastard must be on a vacation in Bali and these fools must have fallen right into his trap. Pathetic.

"He is dead, Harrison. I have confirmed it." Tuwaine tentatively clarified and Harrison bit the inside of his mouth, his nostrils flaring. He believed in Tuwaine. He had reasons to.

He unclenched his fists, relaxing his popping veins, shutting his eyes momentarily. But his voice reacted differently, devoid of any soreness— "Get his body ready for the funeral," as he walked past the men.

Julian, the youngest of the men swallowed, raising his head in wonder. "Won't you be attending it?"

He didn't bother replying. He instead answered by smashing the bowl of glass pellets from the reception table to the floor.

***

It was part fascinating and part agitating how sharply death could influence our opinion on the person in question. Lufian Clarke sucked. Lufian Clarke was a pain in the ass. But Lufian Clarke was the closest Harrison had to a father. And Lufian Clarke was dead.

Harrison would have calmly accepted Lufian's death if only it was not for the seven-paged will he left on his table. A fortune worth billions summed up in seven pages. Seven pages that should have only and only addressed one person's name apart from Lufian's own. But that wasn't the case.

The will was cut into half and only one half was named to him. The other half that rightfully also belonged to him was named to one of their first hand rivals. The one Clarke had himself taught to despise.

Sandhya Omar. The name stuck out like a sore thumb. The way his tongue hit his palette burned his gut, exploding into a fire deep within his chest. Those fools weren't standing like zombies in the hall for Clarke's death, they were there for the will, afraid of Harrison's response to Clarke's decision.

He yanked his tie, tore off his navy blue blazer and threw it over Clarke's now unused study and shoved back his perfectly gelled dirty-blond hair that fell over one of his blue irises. The climate outside the window was in stark contrast to that of the dead man's room. Harrison watched his men pushing Clarke's coffin into the grave as the seven pages crumbled in his fist. He caught Tom's eye again, and this time Tom didn't look down but up, presumably noticing the papers in Harrison's hand. The following moment he dropped the window blinds.

It was still time for the darkness to take over the cerulean sky but Harrison's heart was already captured in the night. A little knock could not bring his heart back to the bright blue day. Yet, it could bring back his mind.

Harry Holland was at the door, as Harrison rightfully anticipated. He was amongst Clarke's top assassins and conveniently enough, he was also Tom's younger brother. Harrison's lips twisted into a half grin as he walked up to the red head, rolling his uncle's will in his hand and flicking the watch on his wrist. Even when the two brothers had similar warm brown eyes, Harry lacked the cold, unafraid expression that his brother carried. That pleased him.

"Well, there appears to be something you guys forgot to tell me." Harrison remarked in an accusatory tone, tapping the documents over the study. Harry was quick to notice the papers and decipher what they meant.

He hesitated for a second, "We wanted to tell you about--"

Harrison tilted his neck to the side, leaning by the table.

"About what?" His wrath went as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him with a hollowing coldness and a smirk that said nothing and all at once.

"Sandhya O--"

"Kill her."

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...TO BE CONTINUED...

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