Chapter 4

Layla Ghazi's shoulders shook as they walked away from the Ghazi family villa. The evening air was cool, but the atmosphere between them was heavy with the residue of her family's scorn. She stopped, her eyes red and brimming with tears, and looked up at Tariq Al-Farsi. "I'm so sorry, Tariq," she whispered, her voice cracking. "My family… they shouldn't have treated you like that. They didn't even give you a chance before throwing those demands at you. It's my fault you're being dragged into this mess." Tariq's expression remained a mask of calm. He reached out, his large hand steady as he brushed a stray hair from her face. "There is no need for apologies, Layla. Your family values results. Once I secure the order from Najm Group, your grandfather will have no choice but to acknowledge us. This is just a hurdle." Layla wiped her eyes, but the anxiety didn't fade. "But thirty million dollars? That's not a hurdle, Tariq, that's a mountain. Sami Haddad, the chairman of Najm Group, is famous for being unreachable. Even the biggest families in Al-Waha struggle to get a meeting with him. How are we supposed to even get through the front door?" Tariq smiled, a small, confident tilt of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about Sami Haddad. He will listen." Layla bit her lip, looking at him with a mixture of hope and disbelief. "You say it so easily. Wait—" She paused, a sudden thought striking her. "I just remembered. I have an old classmate, a woman I used to be close with before the accident. I heard she works in a middle-management position at Najm Group now. Maybe I can contact her? If she can at least get us an appointment, it's better than nothing." Tariq nodded slowly. "If it makes you feel more at ease, go ahead with your plan. It's a good starting point." They reached the gates of her mother's residence, but the door remained firmly shut. Salma Ghazi appeared at the window, her face twisted in a look of pure coldness. She made it clear with a sharp gesture and a locked bolt that Tariq was not welcome inside the house. Tariq shrugged, showing no sign of being offended by the blatant snub. He turned back to Layla. "It seems I'll be heading back to Dar Al-Malik for the night. Go inside and rest. We will handle the business tomorrow." Layla watched him walk away into the shadows of the street, her heart heavy with the weight of the thirty-million-dollar task. Tariq did not take a taxi. He walked with a steady, rhythmic pace until he reached the gates of Dar Al-Malik. The luxury of the estate, the most prestigious villa in all of Al-Waha, felt silent and expectant. He entered the main hall and sat in a high-backed chair, the dim light casting long shadows across his muscular frame. He pulled out a secure line. "Bring Sami Haddad to me," he commanded. The order was brief, leaving no room for questions or delay. Less than an hour passed before a black sedan pulled up to the villa. A middle-aged man scrambled out of the back seat. Sami Haddad, the powerful chairman of Najm Group, looked nothing like the titan of industry portrayed in the business journals. He was roughly fifty, heavyset, and his balding head was slick with a thin film of cold sweat. As he was led into the hall, his knees buckled. He didn't wait to be addressed. He hit the floor, his knees cracking against the polished marble as he knelt before Tariq. "General!" Sami's voice trembled with a primal fear. He knew exactly who sat before him. In the Al-Asimah, the name Tariq Al-Farsi was a legend of blood and iron. To the world, he was a businessman or a retired soldier; to those in the know, he was the Al Qaid Al-Azam, the youngest general to ever command the Janub Plains. "I… I did not know you were in Al-Waha, General. Please, forgive my late arrival." Tariq looked down at him, his gaze icy. "Stand up, Sami. You are the chairman of a major group. Have some dignity." Sami scrambled to his feet, though his hands continued to shake. "How can I serve you, General? Anything you require, Najm Group is at your disposal." "Tomorrow," Tariq began, his voice low and dangerous, "a woman named Layla Ghazi will seek a deal with your company. It is a thirty-million-dollar order. I want you to handle it personally. No assistants, no middle-managers. You will sign the contract with her, and you will ensure the terms are more than favorable." Sami exhaled, a massive wave of relief washing over him. He had expected a life-or-death demand; a thirty-million-dollar contract was a pittance compared to the wrath of the Al Qaid Al-Azam. "Consider it done, General. I will be waiting for Miss Ghazi myself. I will ensure she receives the highest level of service." "Layla Ghazi," Tariq repeated, his voice hardening. "Remember the name. If she is disrespected in your building, the Najm Group will cease to exist in Al-Waha by sunset." Sami bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching his chest. "I understand perfectly. I will not fail you." "Leave," Tariq said, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist. Sami Haddad backed out of the room, bowing repeatedly until he reached the door, then practically ran to his car. Tariq stood and walked out of the villa. The night had turned damp, a light drizzle beginning to fall over the city. He didn't head for a car; he began walking toward the outskirts, toward the suburbs where the ghosts of his past resided. A multi-purpose vehicle without a license plate drifted out of the shadows, idling near the curb. The door opened, and Karim, dressed in his usual black tank and cap, waited behind the wheel. "Where to, General?" Karim asked. Tariq climbed into the passenger seat. "The Al-Farsi Villa ruins. And Karim?" "Yes, sir?" "I am no longer a General in this city," Tariq said, staring straight ahead. "Call me by my name or nothing at all." Karim paused, then nodded solemnly. "Understood, Tariq." The drive to the suburbs was silent. They eventually reached a desolate stretch of land where the charred remains of a grand estate once stood. Ten years ago, the Al-Farsi Villa had been the jewel of Al-Waha. Now, it was a graveyard. The blackened foundations were overgrown with weeds, and rows of simple graves marked the spots where the Farsis had been buried in the wake of the massacre. Tariq stepped out into the rain. He walked to the center of the ruins and fell to his knees. The mud soaked into his trousers, but he didn't care. He looked at the headstone of his grandfather, Yusuf Al-Farsi. "Grandfather," he choked out, the iron composure he held all day finally shattering. Tears mingled with the raindrops on his face. "I was eighteen. Only eighteen when they burned everything. I watched the smoke from the distance, powerless." He thought of his father, Sufyan Al-Farsi, and the bitterness tasted like ash in his mouth. His father had brought Nour Sharif into their home, a woman from the Sharif family who had acted as the viper in their nest. It was her betrayal, her internal maneuvering with the Sharifs and the rest of the Al-Arba'a Al-Kibar, that had led to the fire. "They took everything," Tariq hissed, his hands clenching into fists, digging into the wet earth. "They killed you. They stole our legacy. They even took the family treasure, the Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal. They think they've won because ten years have passed." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cold stone of Yusuf's grave. "I swear to you, I will retrieve the Moon Flower on the Mountain. I will tear down everything the Sharifs have built. I will not stop until every hand that held a torch that night is severed." Karim stood several paces back, holding a black umbrella, watching the most powerful man he had ever known weep in the mud. He waited until Tariq stood up, his face wiped clean of emotion, replaced only by a cold, murderous resolve. "The Sharifs are busy tonight," Karim reported, his voice neutral. "They are holding a massive celebratory banquet. It's a double occasion. They are celebrating the official partnership between Sharif Group and Najm Group—an agreement that gives them early access to all major orders. And it is also the eightieth birthday of Adnan Sharif." Tariq's eyes narrowed. The Sharif Group. It was the rebranded husk of what used to be the Farsis' business. Adnan Sharif, the patriarch, was celebrating his long life on the literal and figurative graves of Tariq's family. "A birthday and a partnership," Tariq mused, a dark glint appearing in his eyes. "It sounds like a grand event. It would be rude not to attend." "Shall I prepare a gift?" Karim asked. Tariq looked toward the city lights, where the Sharifs' wealth shone the brightest. "Yes. I have a debt to collect, and Adnan is an old man. He should be prepared for the end." He turned to Karim, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly casual tone. "Order a coffin. A high-quality one. We're going to the banquet to deliver it." ════════════════════════════════════════