Chapter 25

The heavy scent of alcohol and sweat in the VIP room was suddenly cut by a wave of cold, disciplined aggression. Malik Barakat, who had been sneering at the chaos moments before, felt the color drain from his face as the doorway flooded with men in black suits. At their head stood a man whose presence alone shifted the gravity of the room—Mazen Al-Ghamdi. As the king of Al-Wadi's underground, Mazen moved with a lethargic confidence that suggested he had already decided how everyone in the room would die. Behind him, Lina Quinn stood like a silent shadow, her expression unreadable but her posture sharp. Malik's complexion turned a sickly shade of gray. He glanced at the sheer number of reinforcements Mazen had brought, his pulse visible in his neck. "Mazen Al-Ghamdi," Malik spat, his voice cracking slightly despite his attempt to sound irritated. "Why did you bring so many people into my establishment? This is a violation of the territory rules." Mazen didn't even flicker an eye toward Malik. It was as if the owner of Al-Nujoom Club was nothing more than a piece of furniture in his path. Instead, the underground king marched straight toward Tariq. In a move that sent a collective shock through the room, Mazen Al-Ghamdi bent his back in a deep, humble bow. The men he brought followed suit, a wave of dark suits dipping in unison. "Tariq Murad, my apologies for being late," Mazen said, his voice dropping to a tone of profound respect that none of his subordinates had ever heard him use. Lina Quinn remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor, acknowledging the hierarchy without a word. The men who had been holding Rana—now clutching her torn shirt to her chest—froze in terror. They looked between the legendary Mazen and the supposedly penniless son-in-law, their minds unable to bridge the gap. Tariq stood over Rana, his shadow long and menacing. He didn't look at Mazen's bow, his gaze remaining fixed on the trembling men who had dared to touch his wife. "You should know what to do," Tariq said. His voice was calm, a low vibration that carried more threat than a scream. "Of course," Mazen replied, straightening his back. The humility vanished, replaced by a predatory sharpness as he turned toward Malik Barakat. Malik gritted his teeth, his pride surging even as his knees shook. "Mazen Al-Ghamdi, are you trying to start a fight? You're on my turf. You think you can just walk in here and—" Mazen didn't let him finish. He blurred forward, his palm connecting with Malik's face in a slap that sounded like a gunshot. The force of the blow sent Malik spinning into a low table, shattering glass and spilling expensive liquor. Before Malik could scramble up, Mazen's boot crashed into his chest, pinning him to the floor. Mazen shifted his weight, grinding his heel into Malik's cheek, forcing the man's face against the damp carpet. "And can you win against me with the likes of you?" Mazen laughed, a dry, mocking sound. He looked around the room, his eyes lingering on Malik's stunned security detail. "Today, whoever offended Tariq Murad has earned their name on my hit list," Mazen declared, his voice dropping to a sub-zero temperature. "Not a single one of you can leave!" At his signal, Mazen's men moved like a well-oiled machine. They swarmed Malik's guards, disarming them and forcing them to their knees with brutal efficiency. The chaotic party atmosphere was replaced by the grim silence of a slaughterhouse-in-waiting. Malik groaned under Mazen's boot, his muffled protests ignored. From behind the heavy bead curtains that partitioned the deeper, more private section of the VIP suite, a new voice cut through the air. It was sharp, entitled, and dripping with a venomous lack of fear. "You're Mazen Al-Ghamdi?" Jaber Sloane stepped out from the shadows. His head was still bleeding from where Tariq had struck him with the bottle, the red streaks matting his thinning hair and staining his collar. He looked at the scene—the subdued guards, the pinned Malik—with an expression of pure fury rather than fear. "So what you're saying is that you will lay a hand on me as well?" Malik, sensing a lifeline, managed to choke out a warning from beneath Mazen's boot. He looked up at Mazen with a dark, twisted smirk, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "Mazen Al-Ghamdi... don't blame me for not reminding you that Mr. Sloane is not someone you can offend." Mazen paused, his foot still heavy on Malik's face. "Even if you're very influential within Al-Wadi," Malik continued, his voice raspy but triumphant, "Mr. Sloane is from Madinat Al-Dhahab. He is the nephew of Ibrahim Calloway. Before him, you're nothing!" The name 'Ibrahim Calloway' hung in the air like a physical weight. The Barakat Allah. The man whose medical empire stretched from Madinat Al-Dhahab across the globe, a titan whose influence could bankrupt a city or save a nation with a single phone call. Lina Quinn's breath hitched. Tariq remained silent, his expression unreadable, watching as the atmosphere in the room shifted once again. Jaber Sloane straightened his jacket, his eyes locked onto Mazen's with the arrogance of a man who knew he was untouchable. "Well, Mazen?" Jaber sneered, stepping closer. "Are you going to step on my face too, or are you going to realize who your masters are?" ════════════════════════════════════════