In the opulent suite, located high above the bloodstained sands, comfortably sat the Don as he exhaled a large cloud of cigar smoke, his eyes not leaving Christopher and Alexander, whose countenance had greatly improved. The elixir, or whatever its name was, had been a revelation to Lloyd, who was still in disbelief about Alexander's injuries healing instantly in front of him.
Right now, however, his attention was solely on the Don, whose mere presence commanded an air of unspoken authority and dread. But unlike most extravagant nobles that adorned themselves with jewels and silks, he was instead clad in attire that could only be described as disarmingly casual – a simple, yet impeccably tailored shirt, its sleeves rolled up as if he were a common tradesman rather than a figure of immense power, and what appeared to be beige cotton pants. But it was not his clothes that drew the attention as much as it was his towering physique.
At nearly seven feet tall, the Don's frame was not just imposing in height, but sculpted with the kind of muscle that spoke of strength honed by discipline and, perhaps, violence. His skin was weathered, marked by the trials of his life, each scar a silent testament to battles won and challenges overcome. Yet, despite this, there was an unexpected grace to his aura, a predator's poise that was both elegant and alarming. His face, though rugged, was surprisingly handsome, with a strong jawline and deep-set eyes that glinted with cunning intelligence. Those eyes, sharp and discerning, held a gaze that seemed to pierce through pretenses and lies. At that particular moment, they were fixed intently on the two men facing him, their unease palpable under his unwavering scrutiny while the air was thick with tension, the only sound coming from his cigar slowly burning away.
But then, to the surprise of the duo, he began to laugh – a deep, resonant jest that filled the room with its timbre. Yet, it wasn't one of mockery, but rather of genuine amusement and, perhaps, a hint of admiration.
"Do you realize," he began, his voice tinged with a mixture of gravitas and calm amusement, "that I've just faced off against the Emperor for you two?"
The severity of his statement was underscored by his surprising composure, as though he had found the entire experience not only exhilarating but deeply satisfying.
"But let's cut to the chase," he continued, his gaze still locked onto them.
"For what I've just done, I want you both to come work for me."
The bluntness of the proposal, delivered with an air of non-negotiability, caught Christopher off guard as he realized that they had entered another dangerous lair. Instead of the Emperor coveting them, it was the Don this time around. His brain then began to churn, trying to analyze the situation with the meticulous care of a chess player contemplating a critical move. The Red Circle's involvement was a significant development, and one that suggested that his display of power had been far too desirable. Alexander, too, processed the ramifications of this proposal. As a seasoned ruler and tactician, he understood the implications of being indebted to such an organization. Should they accept, it could easily place them in a precarious position, especially when considering the whims and machinations of their new benefactor. The Don's demand, while framed as an offer, was also clearly not one they could easily refuse. The balance of power in the room was decidedly in his favor, and both Christopher and Alexander recognized the unspoken threat that underpinned his words.
As the smoke continued to fill the room, casting shadows and blurring lines, the duo found itself at a crossroads. To accept his offer was to step into a world of shadowy deals and dangerous alliances, to diverge completely from the path they had set for themselves. Yet, to refuse could also mean making an enemy of a man who had just boldly defied the Emperor himself.
Christopher, standing firm in the opulent suite, faced the Don with a newborn resolve, one stemming from an understanding of his own unique capabilities. After all, he was acutely aware that his earlier intervention had elevated his status from a mere anomaly to a figure of significant interest.
"I appreciate what you did, and I know that using your annual amnesty was a tremendous investment, but I'll have to decline," he stated, his voice unwavering. His refusal was not just a denial of the Don's proposal; it was an assertion of his autonomy, a declaration that he was not a pawn to be maneuvered at will.
The room seemed to freeze at his words. Alexander, surprised by his audacious stance, turned to him with a mixture of contemplation and respect. It seemed that the little man had finally decided to spread his wings and mature. The Don, on the other hand, was visibly taken aback, as his face, once a mask of controlled authority, contorted into an expression of disbelief. It was clear he had not anticipated such a bold refusal.
With his aura turning visibly malicious, he then rose to his full imposing and menacing height, his presence stifling the room.
"Wasn't I clear? Or do you have trouble understanding my words?" he growled, his voice a grave and hoarse whisper that carried an undercurrent of danger.
Christopher felt a shiver run down his spine, but he stood his ground, meeting his counterpart's intimidating gaze with a steely resolve. He understood the gravity of his refusal and the potential consequences of defying a man of his stature, but his earlier demonstration, although public and dangerous, had given him a platform, a visibility that he could, and would, leverage. This was a calculated risk, a gamble that this newfound prominence would grant him some protection. It was finally time for him to bet on himself, just like he should have done back on Earth.
The following standoff in the suite was a moment of intense tension, a clash not just of wills but of strategies and visions. But despite the hostility, Christopher's unwavering stance seemed to ignite a spark of intrigue in the Don. For a man who had been accustomed to bending others to his will, he found himself unexpectedly fascinated by his defiance. The scientist's resolve, his ability to stand firm in the face of overwhelming pressure, suggested a history and a character far more complex than what he had so far seen. As he observed his steadfast demeanor for a while longer, a slight smile began to form on his lips, seemingly figuring out another way to get what he sought. The oppressive aura that had filled the room with tension then began to recede, much to the relief of everyone present, especially the aides who had been uneasily witnessing the exchange.
"Fair enough then," the Don conceded, his voice now contemplative and devoid of malice. He then brought the cigar back to his lips, drawing in a long draft before expelling the smoke into the air.
"Instead, I have two requests."
Christopher and Alexander were quick to exchange a quick glance as the Red Circle's leader continued.
"I want you to take my daughter with you, wherever that may be. Also, it came to my attention that you've purchased a lot of goods, including some of ours. I want us to be your exclusive provider, whatever it entails."
This sudden and massive shift made Lloyd experience whiplash. He had braced himself for a more forceful response, yet here was the Don, not only backing down, but making an offer that, while unusual, seemed reasonable. The only problem was the inclusion of his daughter, as it introduced a new and complex dynamic to their relationship. After all, she was an important figure he knew nothing about and one that, should she be killed, would certainly lead him to an early, macabre grave. Additionally, the request to make the Red Circle their exclusive provider suggested a partnership that could, while potentially beneficial, draw them deeper into the murky waters of Gruzian politics. The Don was clearly a far more nuanced figure than he had initially appeared, since his ability to pivot from threats to negotiation spoke of a man who operated on multiple levels, always seeking to turn situations to his advantage.
As the engineer weighed his response, he also understood that this was more than a mere agreement; it was his first step into a larger world, one where the lines between allies and adversaries were blurred, and where every decision could have far-reaching consequences. He was no longer just a merchant who had disrupted a duel in the Sanguis, but instead a player in the grand scheme of Arcadia, a game where power, intrigue, and survival were inextricably linked.
After rapidly calculating the risks and benefits once more, he found that the terms presented were not entirely unfavorable. He recognized the strategic necessity of this alliance in the volatile landscape, especially during his domain's nascent stage. He also acknowledged that his daughter was a way to maintain leverage over him while keeping tabs on his actions and movements. Yet, Christopher saw this not as a constraint, but also as an opportunity. Her presence could offer insights into the workings of the Red Circle and, by extension, the deeper undercurrents in Gruzia. Furthermore, the protection afforded by an association with the Red Circle was an undeniable asset, particularly when coming back and dealing in the mining hub. Their network and influence would provide a layer of security that was indispensable after his stunt.
With these considerations in mind, Christopher reached a conclusion and stepped forward, closing the distance between him and the Don.
"We have a deal, Don."
His voice carried a firm resolve, and caused his counterpart to respond with a broad, somewhat surprised grin, as he had expected resistance and even further negotiations. Instead, Lloyd's decision not to play games or attempt to outmaneuver him spoke of his pragmatic nature, and was a decision indicating that he was no ordinary individual, but someone who could perceive the larger picture and act accordingly.
With a smile that stretched across his face, he answered back.
"You can just call me Frank."
⁂
In the shadowed luxury of a secluded suite, a sinister atmosphere ran rampant with the impending threat of violence. Thomas Wixton, currently small and pathetic, exuded an aura of palpable fear, his body uncontrollably trembling.
Across him sat, of course, his father, Nicolas Wixton, his presence like a dark cloud looming menacingly, his rage barely contained. The anger in his eyes flickered like a flame, threatening to ignite into an uncontrollable inferno at any moment.
The silence between them was oppressive, broken only by the occasional, shallow breaths of the nearly bald man, who sat like the condemned awaiting judgment, his hands' tremors betraying the gravity of his mistake. His actions had not only tarnished the prestigious Wixton name, but had also resulted in a public affront to the Emperor, something unseen since the brutal purge that had scarred Gruzia.
As time went by, the air seemed to grow colder and thicker, as if suffused with the dark energy emanating from the Patriarch. His wrath was more than just anger; it was a tempest, a destructive force that threatened to obliterate everything in its path, terrifying the nearby aides.
And as if awaiting to pass the ultimate judgment, he only asked one thing, the answer most likely determining the fate of part of his bloodline.
"Explain yourself."