The assistant’s head snapped towards his boss, taking in the hard lines etched across Desmond’s face. It wasn’t often that Rick saw his boss this tense, his usually calm deanor riddled with traces of unease. A gnawing sense of curiosity and concern crept into his thoughts.
"What exactly is happening?" Rick wondered silently. Desmond. Uf had been relentless these past few days, hopping from city to city, eting unseen faces in hidden places.
He had never seen Desmond like this—not even when the Allen board threatened his influence years ago. Rick hadn’t been present the day Desmond visited Davis in the hospital, so the cause of this sudden anxiety remained unknown to him. Still, his instincts scread that sothing was unraveling fast.
Recalling his instructions on phone asking him to arrange a press conference and also to arrange a legal team, his heart skipped a beat and his brow furrowed.
As if reflecting on his own uncertain future, Rick narrowed his eyes in quiet thought. "Will there be a power shift? Is Davis regaining his strength or influence? Should I start preparing for the rainy days ahead? I have my family to think about too. Maybe it’s best to stay silent and observe for now."
Lost in his musing, he barely noticed Desmond shift in his seat until his voice broke the silence.
"Rick, how many people around do you think are truly loyal to ?"
The question hit like a bolt of lightning. Rick’s ears tingled as if he had been physically struck. The question wasn’t just rhetorical; it was loaded and unnerving.
He hadn’t expected this question, this concern—not now.
Only monts ago, he had been entertaining thoughts of planning for his own safety—probably securing a way out for himself. Now Desmond was probing for loyalty when he hadn’t even considered this issue.
Rick swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves. His gaze flickering and unable to et Desmond’s eyes. He forced a confident tone though it wavered ever so slightly. "Sir, I believe many people will stand with you. You’ve been good to them."
Desmond nodded slowly, repeating the words, "You’re right," he murmured though his expression betrayed a lack of conviction. Deep down, even he doubted the extent of loyalty surrounding him. He wasn’t convinced he had truly been good to them
Rick released a quiet breath, trying to calm his fraying nerves. But just as he began to relax, hoping that mont had passed. Desmond spoke again, softer this ti, yet every bit as piercing.
"Rick, are you loyal? Or should I say... will you remain loyal?"
Rick hadn’t expected to be singled out. His heart pounded. It was a direct challenge, one that didn’t allow room for half-truths or vague answers. He hesitated, nodded and finally managed, "Yes. I am and will be."
Though he uttered the words, his heart continued to thunder against his chest.
Desmond simply looked at him and then turned his head toward the front of the car. He had noticed the brief hesitation, the slight tremble of his hand which is on the steering but then...
"Alright. Let’s go inside." Desmond said, his voice revealing nothing of his true thoughts or intentions.
Without waiting for the door to be opened for him, a luxury he usually accepted, Desmond stepped out of the car. Rick scrambled after him, following him toward the front door of the club while wondering again who his boss was planning to et.
For the past few days during their trips, Desmond had always asked him to wait outside while he t with guests. It seed today would be no different.
The Everett Nightclub glead with wealth and opulence. Commonly known across Country Y as a fortress for the elite.
It was infamous for hosting deals that never saw the light of day. Its underground operations were rumored to influence stock markets, elections, and even transcontinental treaties with a price tag.
A doorman approached. "Your mbership card, Sir," he requested.
Rick watched as Desmond reached into his breast pocket and handed over a sleek, gold-trimd card. The doorman inspected it thoroughly before handing it back with a deep bow.
Taking one last breath, Desmond stepped inside, his face resolute. Rick followed behind him, his eyes darting around as he took in the club’s arrangent and décor.
A tall man in a black suit approached them. Judging from the earpiece and asured steps, Rick guessed he was security.
"Boss is waiting for you," the man said. Desmond nodded and followed him, his posture straight, his eyes focused.
They passed through corridors alive with energy—throbbing music, bursts of laughter, clinking glasses, and shadowy figures whispering in velvet booths. But the security man led them past all of it, toward the back halls cloaked in darkness, where only dim wall lights offered direction.
Rick’s instincts stirred uneasily. He felt a wave of fear and unease sweep through him. Symbols lined the walls, so ancient, others occult.
Every single item seed to be made from gold, and with the lighting, the entire space glimred ominously.
Finally, they reached a wide hallway with many turns. Desmond’s thoughts ran wild with the mory of past mistakes, with Davis’s na heavy on his tongue.
His senses heightened. Though skeptical about this trip, he had to take the risk. He had already made one mistake. Now he had to fix it.
And this eting? It was a gamble, one that could correct his failure or destroy him further.
His jaw clenched with one decision made.
Davis had to be erased. Only then coud he step into the power vacuum the Allen family had kept tightly sealed for generations. There would be no compromise.
They stopped at a black double door etched with a strange logo that shimred under the faint light. Rick, eyes wide, remained outside as instructed. Desmond tapped lightly.
The door creaked open. He stepped in.
The room mirrored the hallway—dark, luxurious, and dangerous. A low fire burned behind thick glass. The scent in the air was strange—spicy, warm, and dizzying. Desmond blinked rapidly.
"Am I drugged?" he thought, trying to shake off the fog seeping into his limbs. He saw no incense, no smoke, no drink.
A voice, old and low, sliced through the silence. "You are welco."
Desmond blinked again. His eyes adjusted, and finally, he saw the figure across the room. A man seated in a high-backed chair, dressed in grey robes, his face half-hidden in the shadows.
"What is it you want that made you seek out?" the man asked.
Desmond steadied his breath. "I ca with a proposal. Cooperation. Advancent."
The man tilted his head, his eyes glinting like a hawk. "And what do I stand to gain?"
Desmond hesitated. This was the mont.
"If you help ... if you assist in removing the shares from the old man’s hands, then you will beco the highest shareholder of the Allen Empire."
The man murmured, "That is a large bait."
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. The patriarch of the Allen family was sentintal, stubborn, and sharp but mildly he is a shrew. He doubts if those shares are still in his hands.
But Desmond no longer cared how it would be done. The ti for diplomacy had passed. If he couldn’t be accepted into the family, then he would tear it down and rebuild it in his own image.
Their discussion continued for hours. As they carefully plotted out the best Strategies, nas and tilines.
By the ti Desmond left the club, the weight in his chest had lessened. He had planted the seeds of destruction.
~Ravendale’s estate~
The Ravendale estate was breathtaking in the moonlight. White mansions stood proudly against erald lawns. The air was scented with blooming roses and jasmine, but in one of the private studies, the temperature was anything but sweet.
Elliot Ravendale sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his jaw tight, his gaze frigid. A subordinate stood beside him, stiff and silent, bracing for whatever storm might co.
In his hand, Elliot swirled a glass of red wine but hadn’t taken a sip. His mind was on the ssage he had just received. Desmond had sought the destruction of the Allen family and worse, he had found an ally.
"What was the response?" Elliot asked.
"He accepted the cooperation," the subordinate said quietly.
Fiercely, he hauled the glass to the wall as it shattered.
Wine sprayed across the floor, a deep red like blood. The subordinate flinched and stepped back imdiately, sweat beading on his brow.
Elliot leaned back slowly, his expression calr now but far more dangerous.
"Tighten the security around Davis. If anything happens to him... I will take your life for it."
"On it, sir."
The mont the man left the study, Elliot reached for his private phone and dialed a secure line. It rang once.
"Godfather," a soft, teasing voice answered. "Never thought you still rember you have a goddaughter."
"Jessica," Elliot chuckled. "I’ve been... a little busy. How are you?"
They exchanged light banter, but soon his voice grew grave.
"You have to work up sothing."
"Alright," Jessica responded. "I’ll take a look. Anyone in particular?"
"Your husband," Elliot said.
Silence. Then a quiet chuckle.
"Don’t worry, Dad," she said, voice low and dangerous. "I’ll handle it."
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