Farid's smile faded.
He raised just two fingers.
And from the shadows armed men emerged.
Six.
Not improvised.
Not amateurs.
Zafir took a minimal step, placing himself half ahead of Amira.
Farid looked at him with a grimace of annoyance.
—You should have died ten years ago.
Zafir didn't flinch.
—And you should have learned not to leave witnesses.
Farid narrowed his eyes.
—Your mother did understand too late.
Don Hassan, tied to the chair, tried to move with weak fury.
Amira felt something inside her break.
—Was you —whispered.
Farid smiled again.
That time without a mask.
Without pretending.
—Your father did not want to give up the northern energy corridor. The Alsaba family did not want to let go of the ports. There were too many heirs, too many obstacles, too many people believing themselves untouchable.
He looked at Zafir.
—Some accidents are... long-term investment.
The world became a target of rage.
But before Amira moved, Zafir spoke.
—Thank you.
Farid frowned.
—That?
—To put it out loud.
And then, from the upper beams of the warehouse, a red light came on.
Then another.
And other.
Farid turned.
Afternoon.
Very late.
Amira smiled for the first time all night.
Not a sweet smile.
A smile Salgado.
—Meet you —he said in a deadly soft voice— to the federal prosecutor's office, to financial crimes, to two anti-corruption units... and to the live recording you just gave them.
Farid paled.
The armed men hesitated.
Fatal error.
The warehouse side doors exploded into a synchronized agent entrance.
Screams.
Orders.
Lights.
