Chapter 5 TRUST IS FOR FOOLS

"You want me to help you fix something..." Irish said, leaning forward. His brow arched, his voice skeptical and deliberate. "...a problem. But you can't tell me what caused that problem in the first place?"

He splayed his elbows across the conference table like he was planting flags in the dirt. His tone wasn't angry. It was worse; disappointing. "What's so deep about it that you can't share?" he continued, eyes flickering between the two men like a predator scanning for weakness.

"Sir Solomon?" He turned toward the elder statesman beside Marsell. "You're in this with him. So you won't say anything either?"

Both men sat in silence, heavy and tight like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Sir Solomon, with his peppered beard and statesman's posture, shifted in his seat. Something stirred in his chest. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe fear. Or maybe he was just tired of the weight of so many secrets.

He cleared his throat like a man preparing to admit a sin. "Son," he began, voice gravel-thick and pleading, "I appreciate you taking this meeting. You didn't have to. And believe me, I understand how this looks.

But the hell this man-" he nodded towards Marsell "-went through just to reach you... It's real.

We came here today not just for answers. We came hoping to leave with a solution. Or at the very least... a path to one.

So can't you-" he leaned forward, fingers clenched together, "can't you feign ignorance... just for a while... and help us out? No questions asked?"

There was a moment.

Brief.

Cold.

Heavy.

Irish, let it hang. Then he leaned back, shoulders easing just a touch. His voice was cool, but it crackled with something old and worn. "In all my years as a freelance businessman... the one thing I've learned-the only truth that matters-is this: You can't fix a wound if you're too scared to look at where it started bleeding." He paused.

Let them feel it.

"You need to know where you came from... to know where the hell you're going."

Sir Solomon closed his eyes. A flicker of pain, shame, or maybe both danced across his weathered face.

"We're very much aware of that," he muttered, barely audible. His voice trembled slightly as he looked up again.

"But... regardless... I insist. As an aging man who has made too many enemies and watched too many bridges burn-I insist. Please... help us."

A silence fell again. A tighter one. Until Irish spoke-and detonated it. "I won't help any of you," he said flatly.

The air froze. Even Marsell blinked.

"Unless..." Irish leaned back, resting his foot on one knee. "...you prove you're trustworthy."

He folded his arms. "I won't tell you how. You're businessmen-sharks in suits. You should know how to swim in any waters.

So go. Be creative. I'll contact you... when I believe you've earned it."

And with a sharp nod, Irish stood. "Have a nice day, gentlemen." He walked out-calm, collected, deadly.

Most would've seen that rejection and burned with frustration. But not them. No, Solomon and Marsell didn't leave feeling defeated. Their minds sparked with a hunger only the desperate and the ruthless knew.

Their kind had no concept of 'enough.' Greed had rewired their sense of satisfaction-if trust was the currency, they'd buy it with blood, tears, and whatever else they had to give:

As Marsell lingered behind in the stale hotel room, pacing and scribbling half-formed ideas on a napkin, Solomon stepped out into the corridor and signaled his right-hand man-a lean figure dressed in black slacks and a whisper-thin earpiece.

"I need you to handle something discreet," Solomon said without looking at him. "Go to the city's tax registrar. Bribe, threaten, fabricate-do whatever it takes. I want Irish's entire business structure audited, frozen, and flagged under anonymous whistleblower status.

I want his accounts tied up. His cash flow crippled. No physical harm... not yet. Just financial suffocation. Enough to make him see us as the lifeline."

The man nodded and disappeared into the stairwell like a ghost.

Solomon straightened his coat and muttered under his breath, "Trust is earned... even if I have to force it into his hands."

He thought he was clever. But he forgot one rule about shadows-they always stretch back further than you expect.---

In a dim-lit hall, somewhere on the edge of the city, Luca stood with the file in his hand. The file. A piece of leverage that could bring Sir Dhaval crashing down.

He was inches away from the front door. Then; "Bro... do you need to keep doing this?"

The voice sliced through the air. Luca froze. That voice. Familiar. Soft, but strained.

He turned. His younger brother stood there, hands in the pockets of a weathered hoodie, eyes pleading. His name was Matteo; calm-hearted, thoughtful... the only warmth Luca had left in his world.

"Why won't you let bygones be bygones?" Matteo asked. "Is this really what Angelica would've wanted from you?"

Luca's jaw clenched. The name Angelica hit like a crowbar to the chest.

"If she found out about what you've been doing... if she knew you've turned into this cold, obsessed version of yourself-do you really think she'd still look at you the same way she did when she loved you?"

Luca sagged. His hand reached for the wall beside him like a man too tired to carry his own rage. His eyes dimmed. Tears slipped down, unapologetic and raw.

Matteo watched silently, heart torn between fear and heartbreak.

Luca took a deep breath, his voice cracking as he dropped the file onto a nearby table.

"Dhaval... that old bastard ruined my... our life..." He looked at Matteo, eyes bloodshot, face hollowed by grief.

"He didn't just take Angelica from me. He torched her soul. He humiliated us. They took our father's company, our mother's pride, fired me unfairly, everything. And no one stopped him. No one questioned it. He erased us from existence."

Matteo swallowed hard.

Luca stepped closer and placed both hands on his brother's shoulders. "You're all I've got now. And I'm all you have. So you don't need to worry, little brother."

He smiled faintly. Broken.

"He called me a nobody... So I won't kill him. I won't take a life." His voice hardened. His eyes burned.

"But I'll take everything that matters to him. From the shadows. Quiet. Unseen. If I can't have his empire... then neither will he."

He pulled one hand back and formed a fist-like a silent vow sworn in steel.---

Sir Dhaval straightened his tie as the cameras clicked behind the curtain. The press conference was about to begin-a tightly orchestrated event meant to kill the rumors, silence the journalists, and salvage what was left of his public image.

A guard approached. "Sir, someone delivered this to you. Said it was urgent." Dhaval took the plain envelope without a second glance. He opened it.

Inside... was a photograph.

His breath caught.

Gasoline. A month ago version of himself and two of his trusted men-caught in a grainy photo-spreading it across the floors of a firm. Angelica's fabric firm.

He stumbled back. One hand shot to his chest. A panic bloomed behind his ribs. Eyes wide. Skin pale.

On the back of the photo was a message scrawled in a neat, cruel script: "Be sure to tell your interviewers that you killed your daughter-in-law. Or I'll do it for you."

Dhaval's knees buckled slightly.

Someone called out from the curtain. "Sir Dhaval? We're live in thirty seconds."

His hand trembled. His lungs burned. He looked up at the mirror across the dressing room, eyes haunted.

And then he whispered..."...Luca."