Chapter 10

The roar of engines signaled the arrival of Majid Al-Amiri's entourage. Four Al Hurriya Sportster 883 Custom Davidsons skidded to a halt at Al-Jawhara, their chrome surfaces gleaming under the streetlights. Eight bikers, clad in sleek, high-end riding gear, dismounted with practiced coordination. At their center stood Majid Al-Amiri, a man standing 1.8 meters tall, his buffed physique straining against his jacket. He ran a hand over his fresh buzz-cut, his handsome features set in a mask of indifferent power. Adel Al-Hammadi stepped forward immediately, pointing a trembling finger at Tariq. "Majid Al-Amiri, it's him alright! Don't let him think about leaving without coughing up three hundred thousand!" Majid's eyes locked onto Tariq, assessing the man who looked like he'd crawled out of a bargain bin. Tariq didn't flinch. He adjusted his stance, looking from the heavy bikes to the scowling Adel. "I'm sorry, but he ran a red light and should take full responsibility," Tariq said, his voice level. "What's more, we didn't really hit each other. There was no contact." Adel's face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the paint on his damaged bike. He stepped into Tariq's personal space, his chest heaving. "Does that mean you won't pay up?" he roared. Tariq remained silent. He didn't move back, nor did he raise his hands. He simply watched the bikers, his expression unreadable. Majid Al-Amiri stepped forward, a deep frown creasing his brow. The air around him felt heavy, the weight of a man used to getting his way on Sayyid Street. "Bro, three hundred thousand won't cost much," Majid said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Just a leg." Tariq tilted his head slightly. "What if I told you I don't have any money?" A beat of silence followed, then the biker gang erupted. "Majid Al-Amiri, just one look at his outfit, and you can tell that he's broke," one biker sneered, gesturing at Tariq's worn clothes. "This idiot might not even know what a Al Hurriya Sportster 883 Custom is, hahaha!" another laughed, slapping his thigh. Majid stepped closer, his lips curling into an insolent smile. "Uncle, do you know who I am? I'm Majid Al-Amiri of Sayyid Street. Everyone shows me respect by calling me ‘Majid Al-Amiri'. It would be unreasonable if you didn't compensate for a single thing today." "Uncle, quickly call someone to bring you some money," a third biker jeered, leaning against his handlebars. "Our Majid Al-Amiri doesn't hold back in a beating." Majid crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes glinting with amusement. "So, what is your decision, Uncle?" Before Tariq could respond, a sharp, mocking female voice cut through the laughter. "He's my cousin brother-in-law, a wretched piece of trash living under my cousin sister's expenses!" Farah Ghazi stepped out from behind the bikers, her eyes full of venom as she looked at Tariq. She tossed her hair, enjoying the confusion on the bikers' faces. The gang froze for a second before cracking up even harder. "Shit, a kept man!" one of the men shouted, doubling over. "Uncle, you have quite the skills. Why don't you teach us?" Tariq stood in the center of the ridicule, his silence absolute. He wasn't looking at Farah or Majid anymore. He was looking at the horizon of the street, waiting. The sound started as a low hum—a swarm-like buzzing that rapidly grew into a mechanical thrum. From the shadows of the neighboring blocks, a wave of red-colored scooters appeared. They moved with military precision, filtering through the gaps in traffic and mounting the curbs. Within seconds, fifty units of red scooters had formed a tight, suffocating ring around the bikers and their expensive Davidsons. The delivery men didn't turn off their engines. They sat on their seats, fifty pairs of eyes staring down the eight bikers. Adel Al-Hammadi spun around, his eyes wide as he looked at the sea of cheap plastic and red uniforms. "Shit! What gives?" he yelled, his voice cracking. "They're all cheap scooters!" He turned back to Tariq, his arrogance momentarily replaced by confusion. "Did you call for them?" Tariq gave a short, sharp nod. "Yeah." Adel burst into a frantic, high-pitched laugh. "Hahaha! You think that calling a bunch of delivery men over would be useful?" The circle of scooters parted slightly at the front. Yasmin Al-Farsi stepped through the gap, her movements leisurely and confident. She walked past the row of red bikes and stopped in front of Majid Al-Amiri, ignoring the other bikers entirely. "I am Tariq's manager," Yasmin said, her voice smooth but carrying a clear edge. "If you have a problem with him, you can talk to me." Majid's eyes traveled over Yasmin, his expression softening into a predatory smirk. "Okay, I'll talk to you then," he said happily. He gestured vaguely at Adel's bike. "Three hundred thousand. Once we get the money, he can leave." Yasmin didn't blink at the amount. "Sure," she replied coldly. "But, we choose to settle it with a police report." The smirk vanished from Majid's face. His expression darkened instantly. A police report meant inspections, registration checks, and official statements—things a leader of a Sayyid Street gang avoided at all costs. Worse, he knew half his men, himself included, were riding without valid licenses. "Babe, talks don't work this way," Majid growled. "It's too insincere." Behind him, the biker group began cracking their knuckles, shifting their weight as they prepared to strike. In unison, the fifty delivery men dismounted. The sound of fifty kickstands hitting the pavement echoed like a gunshot. They rolled up their sleeves, exposing forearms toughened by years of manual labor. They didn't shout; they simply stepped forward, closing the circle. Majid Al-Amiri looked around. Eight against fifty. Even if his men were better fighters, they would be buried under the sheer weight of the crowd. He looked at Tariq, then at Yasmin, his teeth gritting together so hard his jaw muscles bulged. "Fine," Majid spat, glaring at the delivery fleet. "You win in numbers. Let's go." He swung his leg over his Sportster and kicked it into gear. As he pulled away, he threw a middle finger back at Tariq over his shoulder. The other seven bikers followed suit, their engines roaring in a frustrated retreat. Farah Ghazi stood alone for a moment, staring at the spot where the bikers had been. She turned to Tariq, her face twisted in a mask of pure loathing. She didn't say a word, but the look in her eyes promised that this wasn't over before she stomped off toward her own car. Yasmin walked over to Tariq, her professional mask slipping into one of genuine concern. "Boss, are you okay?" Tariq looked at his delivery team, then back at Yasmin. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, his voice returning to its usual neutral tone. "You guys can head back now." With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the small army. Yasmin nodded, leading the fleet away as the red scooters dispersed back into the city's veins. Tariq didn't linger. He got back onto his bicycle and began the slow pedal back to Al-Wadi Public Hospital. The hospital room was quiet when he arrived. He spent the evening by Layla's side until Rana Ghazi arrived much later that night. She looked exhausted, her usual composure frayed at the edges. After freshening up in silence, she climbed into the hospital bed, pulling the small form of Layla into her arms. Tariq didn't protest or try to talk; he simply moved to the hard plastic bench in the corner and closed his eyes. Morning brought the weight of social obligations. Today was the birthday of the family patriarch, Khalid Ghazi. Tariq stood in the hospital hallway, looking at the Bassam Al-Brooks painting he had received from Omar Al-Rashid. It was an authentic masterpiece, worth over ten million, wrapped securely to hide its contents. After a long moment of thought, Tariq decided to make the trip to Al-Karam Residence. When he arrived at the prestigious restaurant, the sight of the grand entrance reminded him of the world he had walked away from. He spotted Rana standing near the front, checking her watch with anxious, jerky movements. Tariq walked up behind her, his pace slow. "Hey, are you waiting for me?" he asked lazily. Rana spun around, her brow furrowed in a deep, disdainful frown. Her eyes immediately dropped to the wrapped package in his hands. "Did you bring a gift for my dad?" "Yeah, I did," Tariq said. Rana sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a stern whisper. "Once we get inside, don't say anything rash. A lot of my family members and my father's friends are here today, and if they say anything about you, just bear it." She reached out, gripping his sleeve as if to anchor him. "You just have to remember one thing today, that is to apologize to my parents. If you can do that, I won't divorce you." Tariq felt a sudden, sharp urge to chuckle. The irony of the situation was a physical weight in his chest. If Khalid Ghazi had even the slightest inkling of who Tariq Murad actually was—the heir to seventy percent of the world's business assets—the old man wouldn't be looking for an apology. He would be shaking in his boots, wondering if he had breathed too loudly in Tariq's presence. "Do you understand?" Rana asked, her voice sharpening when he didn't immediately answer. Tariq looked into her eyes and saw the genuine stress there. "Got it," he said. They walked into the private dining room together. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive oud and high-end catering. The Ghazi family was there in full force, surrounded by Khalid's wealthy inner circle. As Tariq entered behind Rana, the lively chatter didn't falter—it simply bypassed him. He was a ghost in a room full of people who saw only his worn shoes and the cheap wrapping on his gift. Tariq felt a flash of regret for coming. Being ignored was one thing; being publicly ostracized in a room full of his wife's peers was another. He watched as Khalid Ghazi and Nour Khalil moved through the crowd. Khalid, dressed in a sharp traditional thobe, pointedly looked away as Tariq approached. To Khalid, Tariq wasn't a son-in-law; he was a stain on the family's reputation, a delivery man who had no business breathing the filtered air of Al-Karam Residence. Nour Khalil followed her husband's lead, her gaze sweeping over Tariq with the same warmth one might give a cockroach on a kitchen tile. The door to the private room opened again, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. A man walked in, his suit tailored to perfection, radiating the kind of effortless wealth that the Ghazis craved. He was handsome, well-groomed, and his eyes immediately locked onto Rana with a proprietary gleam. As the man approached the center of the room, the guests began to whisper, their attention shifting away from the birthday celebrant and toward the newcomer. Tariq stayed in the shadows, his grip tightening slightly on the Bassam Al-Brooks painting as he watched the man move toward his wife. ════════════════════════════════════════