We arrived at the stone building nestled at the end of a dusty road, its presence imposing under the burning afternoon sun. Two armed guards stood stiffly at attention in front, rifles strapped across their chests, dark sunglasses obscuring their eyes. Their expressions were unreadable, but the slight tightening of their grips on the weapons didn't escape my notice.
The heavy iron doors creaked open, and out stepped a man who looked to be in his fifties. He was clad in a worn tunic that brushed against his calves, the fabric barely managing to contain his heavyset frame. His pot belly jutted out proudly, swaying slightly with each step he took.
Golden rings, thick and gaudy, adorned nearly every one of his fingers, and around his neck hung a massive cross on a thick chain that swung heavily with his movements. His balding head gleamed in the sunlight, beads of sweat already gathering on the sparse strands that remained.
A tight, strained smile split his face as he welcomed us, a forced hospitality that only deepened my sense of suspicion.
"Mr. Caspian Rossini," he said, voice oily and false. "Welcome. What an unexpected surprise. Please, do come in."
Seb and I exchanged a brief glance. Without a word, we stepped out of the car, leaving the rest of my men posted outside. They knew their orders well — remain alert, guard the perimeter. Not that Seb and I needed protection inside these walls. If anything went sideways, we'd handle it ourselves.
The interior of the building hit me like a punch. It was sparsely decorated, but the centerpiece was impossible to ignore — a massive four-poster bed stood boldly in the center of the room, draped in sheer, tattered veils.
And tied to that bed was a woman, completely naked, her arms stretched above her head, ankles bound to the posts. She stirred weakly, her face turned away from us, a long purple bruise blooming across her ribs.
The Prophet — that was what he liked to call himself, ridiculous as it sounded — noticed our lingering stares. He cleared his throat, an awkward chuckle rumbling from deep within his chest.
"Excuse me," he said with a smirk, revealing a fake gold incisor that gleamed grotesquely under the flickering light overhead. "Had some unfinished business. But of course, I had to put it on hold for such... important guests."
Seb shot me a look, one eyebrow raised slightly. I gave a barely perceptible nod. We knew what we were dealing with now — a man drunk on his own power, believing himself untouchable.
The Prophet ushered us toward a sitting area arranged to the side of the room — two cracked leather armchairs and a low table scattered with half-smoked cigars and empty glasses. We sat down, the leather groaning under our weight. He flopped heavily into his chair opposite us.
He cleared his throat again, adjusting the heavy cross around his neck as if it were a badge of honor. "To what do I owe this surprise, Mr. Caspian?"
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm here to talk about the land at the beginning of the road," I said evenly. "I want it for a new wine factory. Thought the deal was straightforward. But the Bureau of Land Management has refused to sell."
I watched his face carefully. Not a flicker. He was good.
"After some... persuasion, the director let slip the real reason. He claims the proximity to your community here makes the sale problematic. Which, frankly, is absurd. The land's not even close."
"Ah," the Prophet said, smiling again — that same tight, crocodilian smile. He steepled his fingers under his chin, rocking slightly in his chair. "I see."
He knew something. That much was clear.
It wasn't just some neighborhood politics. He had leverage over the director — maybe blackmail, maybe a favor, but something that made a government official dance to his tune.
I allowed myself a small smirk. "Whatever you're holding over him," I said smoothly, locking eyes with him without so much as a blink, "I'm here to ask you — nicely — to talk him into reconsidering."
For a moment, the Prophet held my gaze. Then he blinked. Rapidly. Looked away.
Gotcha.
He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards approached swiftly. The Prophet whispered into the man's ear, then waved him off.
He turned back to us with a wide, oily grin. "Perhaps I could... entice you with something else?"
Seb scoffed before I could respond. "Nah," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You wouldn't have anything that could entice us."
The Prophet chuckled, a deep, ugly sound. "Oh, I think I do," he said confidently.
The guard returned moments later, this time ushering in a line of young women. They filed in silently, heads bowed, barefoot and dressed in thin slips of fabric that left little to the imagination. Another guard followed behind them, a baton in his hand, tapping it lightly against his palm as he herded them forward.
They were lined up in front of us like cattle at an auction. My stomach churned with disgust.
I scanned their faces quickly. No sign of the woman from earlier.
"What is this?" I asked coldly.
"Just a little incentive," the Prophet said, flashing his gold tooth. "You and your friend can pick anyone you like. They'll be... very eager to please."
I felt Seb stiffen beside me. His fists clenched at his sides.
"Thank you for your kind offer," Seb said, his voice slick with sarcasm, "but we'll pass."
I couldn't help it — I laughed. The absurdity of it all was too much. The Prophet actually thought a handful of terrified girls would be enough to sway me? That I would abandon a multimillion-dollar project for some fleeting pleasure?
He took me for a fool. A man who thought with his dick instead of his brain.
I stood up abruptly, chair scraping back against the stone floor. "I don't think this is going anywhere," I said, voice sharp. "We'll take our leave."
Seb rose smoothly beside me, and together we strode out of the building, ignoring the Prophet's sputtered protestations behind us.
Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard. My men straightened as we approached.
We were just about to climb into the car when a rumble of engines split the stillness. A heavy-duty truck pulled up, dust billowing in its wake, followed closely by a sleek black BMW.
The truck looked like it belonged on a construction site — big, dented, utilitarian. The BMW, though — that was something else. Shiny, spotless, and menacing in its elegance.
The doors of the BMW popped open with a soft thump. A man in a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses stepped out — clearly a bodyguard. He moved with precision, scanning the area before opening the passenger door with a deferential bow.
And then, from within the car, stepped someone who made my stomach clench — not with fear, but with the sudden surge of cold calculation.
Someone I was surprised to see here — and yet, not surprised at all.