Chapter 11

The words of Tariq's grandfather echoed through his mind like a rhythmic tolling of a bell. "The Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal is more than a painting, Tariq. It is the blood and bone of the Al-Farsi family. Lose it, and you lose our history. Protect it, and you protect our soul." The image of the moon over the mountain, valued at a staggering one-point-eight billion dollars, remained the singular weight in his conscience. He turned his gaze toward Karim. The man stood at attention, his darker skin catching the dim light of the room. "Get ready to act tonight," Tariq said. His voice was flat, leaving no room for questions. Karim bowed his head slightly. "Understood." Tariq waved a hand, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist. "Leave before my wife arrives. She has a low tolerance for knaves and hooligans, and frankly, you look the part." Karim's jaw tightened. He glanced down at his attire, then back at Tariq, a flicker of indignation crossing his features at the blunt assessment of his appearance. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tariq didn't give him the chance. Tariq lunged forward with a swift, sharp kick to Karim's backside, sending the man stumbling toward the exit. "Move. Now." Karim didn't look back as he scrambled out of the room, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway. Tariq checked his watch. The workday was drawing to a close. He walked out to the curb, mounting his electric motorcycle. It was a modest machine, humming quietly as he navigated the streets of Al-Waha toward the headquarters of Daim Group. He pulled up near the entrance, leaning the bike against the curb. Pushing the motorcycle along the sidewalk, he positioned himself where he could see the glass doors of the lobby. Layla Ghazi emerged from the building moments later. Clad in a sharp, formal business suit that emphasized her five-foot-ten stature, she moved with a grace that justified her reputation as Al-Waha's prettiest chairwoman. The sunlight caught the professional lines of her blazer, but her expression was weary from a day of corporate maneuvering. Before she could reach the sidewalk, a sleek sedan pulled up, and Jawad Al-Khoury stepped out. He held a bouquet of vibrant flowers, his smile practiced and dripping with the arrogance of the Qabbanis. "These flowers are for you, Layla," Jawad said, stepping into her path. "And I've booked a private room at Al-Jinn Al-Sakar for dinner tonight. I won't take no for an answer." Layla didn't even look at the bouquet. Her eyes scanned the street until they landed on Tariq. A bright, genuine smile broke across her face, erasing the coldness of her professional persona. She walked straight past Jawad, ignoring his outstretched hand, and headed for the electric motorcycle. "Tariq!" she chirped. She reached him and immediately leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before hugging his arm tightly. Jawad stood frozen, the flowers held out to empty air. He turned, his face darkening as he took in the sight of the woman he pursued clinging to a man on a cheap electric bike. Layla looked up at Tariq, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Jawad Al-Khoury invited me to dinner at Al-Jinn Al-Sakar." Tariq glanced at Jawad, then back at his wife. He shrugged casually. "You should go. And take me too, if he's willing to pay for an extra plate." Jawad's patience snapped. He strode over, his expensive shoes clicking on the pavement. He ignored Layla and stared down at Tariq with pure condescension. "I am Jawad Al-Khoury," he announced, as if the name itself should cause Tariq to tremble. "I'll make this simple for you. I will pay you five hundred thousand dollars to leave Layla. Right now. Permanently." Tariq looked at the man, then tilted his head toward Layla. "Five hundred thousand. What do you think? Should I accept the money?" Layla let out a soft laugh, leaning her head against Tariq's shoulder. "You should! It's quite a lot. It's certainly enough to reserve a table at Al-Jinn Al-Sakar for us." Tariq turned back to Jawad and held out his hand. "I'll take it. What's the PIN number?" Jawad sneered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bank card. He thrust it into Tariq's hand. "The PIN is six zeroes. Take the money and leave Layla forever. Don't let me see your face near her again." Tariq tucked the card into his pocket and gave a sharp nod. "Right. We'll get our divorce sorted right now." He patted the back seat of his motorcycle and looked at Layla. "Hop on, darling." Layla climbed onto the back of the bike without a second thought, wrapping her arms firmly around Tariq's waist. Tariq twisted the throttle, and the electric motor whined as they zipped away from the curb. Jawad stood on the sidewalk, watching them disappear into traffic. It took several seconds for the realization to sink in. The "divorce" Tariq mentioned wasn't happening; the man had simply taken his money and driven off with the woman. "You bastard!" Jawad screamed at the retreating motorcycle, his face turning a deep shade of purple. "Tariq! You'll pay for this!" The wind whipped past Tariq and Layla as they wound through the streets of Al-Waha. He didn't stop until they reached the Ghazi residence. He pulled the motorcycle to a halt and helped Layla off. The moment her feet hit the ground, Layla held out her hand, her expression turning firm and practical. "Give me the card." Tariq paused, his hand hovering over his pocket. "Why?" "Because I pay for everything in this house, and we need to save for our future children's expenses," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Hand it over." Tariq sighed, pulling the card out and placing it in her palm. "I'm giving it to you, but you realize I'm losing a fortune here? Between Rayan, Nasir, Jamil, and Saleh, I've lost over two million dollars in these 'bribes' to you and your family." "It's for the family fund," Layla insisted, tucking the card into her purse. "What money are you talking about?" The sharp, suspicious voice of Salma Ghazi cut through the air. She had emerged from the house, her eyes narrowed as she looked between the two of them. "Nothing," Layla said quickly. "Nothing at all," Tariq added, matching her tone. Salma didn't move. Her gaze was predatory. "Don't 'nothing' me. I heard everything. I heard about divorce fees and two million dollars. Hand it over, Layla." "Mom, it's not—" "I said hand it over!" Salma snapped, stepping forward. "That money is compensation for the years I spent raising you. It belongs to me." She snatched Layla's purse, rummaged through it until she found Jawad's card, and stuffed it into her own pocket. She then turned her glare toward Tariq. "And you? This is none of your business. Stop standing around like an idiot and go make dinner. I'm hungry." Tariq didn't argue. He walked into the house and headed straight for the kitchen, the familiar routine of chopping vegetables and searing meat providing a temporary distraction from his dwindling finances. After dinner was served and the plates were cleared, Tariq caught Layla's sleeve and pulled her into their bedroom, closing the door behind them. "Did she really take it all?" he whispered. Layla sat on the edge of the bed, looking helpless. "Everything. She took the card from Jawad, and she already has the rest. She said it was payment for raising me." Tariq leaned against the wall, tallying the losses in his head. A hundred thousand from Rayan. Two hundred and fifty thousand from Nasir. Three hundred thousand from Jamil. Five hundred thousand from Saleh. Combined with the recent bribe from Jawad, it was a staggering sum—all gone into Salma's insatiable pockets. "I'm completely broke," Tariq muttered. "I don't even have enough for a pack of cigarettes." He looked at Layla, a desperate glint in his eye. "I really hope another rich guy shows up soon to offer me money to break up with you. In the meantime... can you send me some cash? Just for cigarettes?" Layla rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't believe a word of that. I saw a black card in your pocket earlier when you were changing. Give it to me for safekeeping." Tariq froze. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. It was unlike any standard bank card. It was a deep, matte black, featuring a glossy black dragon embossed across the surface. There were no embossed numbers, no name, and no expiration date. Layla took it, turning it over in her hands. She frowned. "What is this? There aren't even any numbers on it. Is it a toy?" "It's not a toy," Tariq said softly. "This card is linked to every major bank through a private network. It has an internal ID chip. It doesn't need numbers." Layla didn't look convinced, but she slipped it into her pocket anyway. "Fine. What's the PIN and how much is in it?" "The PIN is eight eights," Tariq said, his voice level. "And there's not much money in it. Just some old savings." Layla squinted at him. "Pins aren't eight numbers long, Tariq! Stop lying." Tariq rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Sorry. My mistake. It's six eights." Layla nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned away to finish her evening routine. Tariq watched her, his expression unreadable. He hadn't told her the truth—that the card required no PIN at all. It was a marker of identity, a symbol of power recognized by the highest financial institutions in the world. It contained a sum of money so vast he had never found a reason to touch it, a reservoir of wealth that dwarfed the petty bribes of Al-Waha's socialites. He stayed silent, the weight of the black dragon card now resting in Layla's pocket, its true potential a dormant fire. ════════════════════════════════════════