—Three? —he asked, although he already knew the answer.
—Khalil, Amar or Zafir. —Don Hassan closed his eyes for a second, exhausted—. The peacock, the glutton or the monster. I don't care which one. Just... make the sun rise tomorrow over the towers that still belong to us.
Amira left the bedroom feeling like she had just signed a part of her soul, even though she hadn't touched a pen yet.
The ballroom of the Hotel Siete Estrellas, owned by the Salgados, shone like an open jewel. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling and launched rainbows over diamond-filled throats. The smiles were thin, sharp. Everyone knew why they were there.
Amira walked down the main staircase wearing a modern midnight blue silk caftan, embroidered in silver. Elegant. Content. A type of armor.
At the base of the stairs the three Alsaba brothers were waiting for her, as if they were pieces of a display case.
Khalil, the eldest, was the first. Handsome in an exaggerated way, beard trimmed with geometric precision, teeth that are too white. He took Amira's hand and kissed the air on her knuckles, scented with expensive musk and vanity.
—Amira... the moon turns pale when you appear —he said, his voice designed for cameras.
And his eyes, meanwhile, searched for the press. Checked flashes. Checked angles. He checked the show.
—I already ordered the presidential penthouse to be prepared. Uniting our capitals... we could buy that archipelago in Greece that you mentioned in that interview. We would be the golden couple on the covers.
Amira felt her stomach turn.
Amar, the youngest, reached in with his shoulder, with a rich boy's smile that never heard a “no”.
—Forget Greece —he said, winking as if that were charm—. Think strength, Amira. With me you don't worry about anything. I take care of the money... and you take care of being pretty. That's how it works.
The void, wrapped in gold.
Amira smiled just enough, said the right thing, and inside she felt locked up.
I needed air.
He slipped between diplomats and partners, crossed a side hallway and emerged onto the terrace where a winter garden formed a labyrinth of shadows and night jasmines. The noise in the living room became a distant hum.
He reached a small marble fontan and rested his hands on the cold edge, trying to breathe.
Then a voice came out of the darkness, beneath an ornamental palm.
—Running away from your own auction.
It wasn't a loud voice. But it was a voice with gravity. A rough, deep baritone that vibrated in his chest.
Amira spun.
