Chapter 24

The heavy oak door of the VIP room buckled under the force of Tariq's boot, swinging inward with a violent crash that was immediately swallowed by the rhythmic thumping of bass. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive spirits and a cloying, sweet smoke. Under the dim, pulsing neon lights, a chaotic tangle of bodies shifted—men and women, stripped of their clothes and their dignity, frozen in various states of debauchery. Nadia Vaughn stood at the edge of the threshold, her mouth clamped shut, her eyes wide as she took in the intrusion. Tariq didn't wait for the music to stop. He reached for the wall panel and slammed his palm against the light switches. Fluorescent white light flooded the room, stripping away the seductive shadows and exposing the scene in all its sordid detail. Shrieks of surprise and shame erupted from the occupants as they scrambled for covers or dived behind furniture. Tariq's gaze was a frantic sweep, ignoring the naked flesh and the outraged glares. He was looking for one face. Malik Barakat stepped forward from a corner, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He didn't even look at Tariq; his eyes were fixed on Lina Quinn, who stood like a cold statue at Tariq's side. "Lina Quinn, this isn't Mazen Al-Ghamdi's turf," Malik growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. "A b*tch like you causing a ruckus here with your boy toy means you're blatantly disrespecting me, Malik Barakat!" Lina didn't flinch, but before she could retort, a shrill, desolated scream pierced through the lingering echoes of the music. It came from behind a heavy set of bead curtains in the far alcove of the suite. "Ah! No! Go away..." The voice was ragged, stripped of its usual composure, but Tariq recognized it instantly. It was Rana. Tariq moved before Malik could stop him. He ripped through the bead curtains, the plastic clicking like gunfire. In the small alcove, two balding men—Kamal Al-Khoury and Jaber Sloane—were hunched over a figure on a velvet chaise longue. Rana's shirt had been torn to pieces, the white fabric hanging in useless shreds around her shoulders. Her eyes were glazed, her hands pushing weakly at the men's heavy chests. Tariq didn't hesitate. He snatched a discarded designer coat from the back of a nearby sofa and threw it over her, shielding her bruised skin from the light. His movements were clinical, fueled by a cold, tectonic rage that had moved past shouting. His hands found two heavy glass bottles of whiskey sitting on a low table. He gripped them by the necks. "F*ck! Get your filthy hands off!" Tariq roared. Kamal Al-Khoury turned, a mocking sneer forming on his face, but it never finished. Tariq swung. The first bottle shattered against Kamal's skull in a spray of amber liquid and jagged glass. As Kamal slumped to the floor, Tariq pivoted, bringing the second bottle down on Jaber Sloane's head with enough force to crack the heavy base. Jaber let out a choked grunt and collapsed against the chaise. The violence was instantaneous and absolute. Tariq dropped the broken necks of the bottles and knelt beside the couch, pulling Rana into his arms. "It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," he whispered, his voice trembling with a gentleness that didn't match the blood on his knuckles. Rana blinked, her focus swimming. She looked at him, her breath hitching in her throat. Suddenly, she lunged forward and bit down hard on Tariq's shoulder, her teeth sinking through his shirt. Tariq didn't move; he let her vent the terror through the pain. Slowly, the tension left her jaw. "Tariq..." she mumbled, her eyes finally clearing for a split second before they rolled back into her head. She went limp in his arms, the exhaustion and trauma finally forcing her into unconsciousness. Lina Quinn appeared at the entrance of the alcove, her face pale as she looked at the two bleeding men on the floor. "Tariq Murad, let's go outside first and send Rana Ghazi to the hospital," she urged anxiously. She could hear the heavy footsteps of Malik's security detail approaching from the main hall. Tariq stood, lifting Rana's light frame into his arms. He tucked the coat tightly around her, his face a mask of granite. He began to walk toward the exit, but Malik Barakat stepped into his path, flanked by four hulking guards. "Leave?" Malik's voice was a low growl, his eyes darting to the unconscious forms of Kamal and Jaber. "Lina Quinn, what place do you think this is? You beat up my valuable guest and now you want to leave?" Lina stepped in front of Tariq, her hand resting on the hilt of a small blade tucked into her belt. "Malik Barakat, don't think that I'm afraid of you," she said, her voice stern and unwavering. "Would you even dare to lay a hand on me? Aren't you afraid that Mazen Al-Ghamdi would come for you?" Malik's jaw tightened. The name Mazen Al-Ghamdi carried weight in the underground of Al-Wadi, weight that Malik wasn't entirely ready to challenge over a simple club dispute. Behind them, Jaber Sloane groaned, clutching his blood-slicked scalp as he struggled to sit up. His face was a mask of gore and fury. "F*ck! No one's leaving today!" Jaber roared at Malik. "Malik, seize that man! I want him dead! Do you hear me? I want his head!" Malik looked at Jaber, then back at Lina. He was caught between the demands of a powerful client and the threat of a rival boss. "Mr. Sloane, they are Mazen Al-Ghamdi's people," Malik explained urgently, trying to dampen the fire. Jaber spat blood onto the expensive carpet, his eyes burning with a vengeful light. "Mazen Al-Ghamdi? Who the hell does he think he is? I don't care if he's the King of Al-Wadi, no one hits me and lives!" "Is that so?" A new voice, cold and sharp as a razor, sliced through the tension in the room. The main doors to the VIP suite were shoved open by a line of men in black suits—professional hitmen who moved with a synchronized, lethal grace. They parted to let a man through. Mazen Al-Ghamdi stepped into the room, his presence instantly draining the air of Malik's bravado. He didn't look at Malik; he didn't look at the half-naked guests. His eyes went straight to Tariq and the woman in his arms. Mazen scanned the room, his gaze landing on Jaber and then Malik. "Whoever lays a hand on Tariq Murad is offending me, Mazen Al-Ghamdi!" he declared, his voice commanding and resonant. The hitmen fanned out, their hands reaching into their jackets. The shift in power was so sudden that Malik Barakat took an instinctive step back, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. Jaber Sloane's mouth hung open, his vengeful shout dying in his throat as he stared at the reinforcements that had just turned the Al-Nujoom Club into a cage. ════════════════════════════════════════