Friends Of Need

"In dire times, even enemies become friends."

Hutch and Arthur sat inside the room, locked in a tense conversation. Outside, Nafisa watched them through the half-open door. She couldn't hear a single word, but Hutch's body language spoke volumes. His shoulders were stiff, jaw clenched, and his eyes never left Arthur's face. Whatever the Belgian had said, Hutch clearly didn't like it.

Arthur leaned forward, gesturing with careful hands, trying to soothe the storm brewing across the table. But it was no use. Hutch's temper flared with every passing second.

Suddenly, Arthur stood up, his expression tight with frustration. He brushed past Nafisa, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Go calm him down," he snapped, his voice like a crack of a whip.

Nafisa flinched. For a second, she hesitated. Then, swallowing her unease, she stepped into the room.

"Go away," Hutch growled, not even bothering to look back.

Nafisa silently picked up a glass of water and held it out toward him.

"Oh? You?" Hutch blinked in disbelief, clearly not expecting her. He snatched the glass and downed it in one long gulp.

"It's no use trying to console me," he muttered, the anger simmering in his voice. "I've made up my mind. The deal is off. At least until that old man starts using his brain for once."

Nafisa let out a long, deliberate sigh. "I've seen my fair share of brooding, stubborn men. You and VPS aren't so different. He reacted the same way when the Belgians offered a generous sum for his product. Turned them down outright. Even threatened to burn everything they stood for if they ever dared to bring it up again."

She paused, her gaze sharpening. "But his threats meant nothing. A few months later, the Kenyan government issued warrants to produce and supply the product anyway. And who was sent each time to sabotage the shipments, to risk her life again and again? Me. Not for glory. Not even for loyalty. Just to feed VPS's wounded pride."

Hutch slumped into his chair, jaw clenched. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, resting his chin against his knuckles.

Nafisa lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face in the dim room. She took a long drag, exhaling slowly as if weighing her words.

"All I'm saying," she murmured, smoke curling from her lips, "is that we need to be patient. No rash decisions. If the Belgian wants a deal with VPS, why not let it happen?"

Hutch snapped his head toward her, fury dancing in his eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about? VPS is my mortal enemy. I wouldn't even breathe the same air as that bastard, let alone help him broker a deal."

Nafisa sighed, tapping ash into a glass tray. "I'm not asking you to talk to him. What if... he agrees to the deal without ever speaking to you—and you still get all the credit?"

Hutch blinked. His rage paused—curiosity, now, laced his silence.

"How would that even work?" he asked, his tone lower, suspicious but intrigued.

A sly smile spread across Nafisa's face. She leaned forward, her voice a whisper of mischief.

"Simple. VPS isn't a single man. It's a brand—constructed in shadows by multiple people. If we can spark a rift between them, the name crumbles. Shinzo and Anbu are solid—they won't budge. Massino is just a loyal mutt. But Farooque?" She chuckled. "Farooque is greedy. Crooked. The kind of man who'd sell out his own blood for a quick payday."

She stubbed out the cigarette, eyes gleaming.

"We don't need to crush VPS. We just need to loosen one brick. Let's set up a meeting—with that idiot."

A faint smile curled on Hutch's lips. "I like your confidence. But here's the thing—we've already tried that. Over and over. And honestly? It never worked. Farooque might be greedy, even a little selfish, but he's no fool. He knows damn well VPS is the only one who tolerates him… and won't have him dumped in a ditch somewhere."

Nafisa leaned back, her smirk razor-sharp. "That's exactly why you don't see results, Hutch. I'm not talking about pleading with the man—I'm talking about sending a message. He has a son, Masud. Currently living it up in Dubai." She tilted her head slightly. "We could… you know, relocate him for a while."

Hutch chuckled, low and amused. "You're brilliant, Nafisa. That's why I like you. You always know when to strike… and how."

Nafisa grinned. "So, when are you coming with me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why would I come?"

She laughed, almost teasing. "Because you're the boss. You're the one who needs to be seen taking the boy. It's your name that needs to echo in his father's nightmares."

Hutch fell silent for a moment, considering. Then he gave a slow nod. "Fine. I'll come."

The two exchanged a knowing look, a dangerous smile shared between two predators ready to hunt.

Cochabamba, Bolivia

Ricardo Martinez was lounging in his armchair, the morning newspaper open in his hands, when a servant entered the room.

"Señor," the servant said with a small bow. "Su invitado, el señor Joseph Turner, ha llegado."

(Sir, your guest, Mr. Joseph Turner, has arrived.)

Ricardo looked up calmly. "Dile que pase."

(Tell him to come in.)

Moments later, a tall, slender white man with silky white hair entered the room, dressed in a crisp suit. He offered a courteous smile and extended his hand.

"Es un placer conocerlo, señor Martinez."

(It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Martinez.)

Ricardo didn't rise, but he did take the handshake. "El placer es mío. ¿Qué te trae por aquí, Joseph?"

(The pleasure is all mine. What brings you here, Joseph?)

Joseph let out a weary sigh. "El mismo problema que nos persigue a todos — VPS. Está encarcelado en Londres por ahora, pero es demasiado astuto para quedarse callado. Su presencia allí nos preocupa."

(The same problem that haunts us all—VPS. He's incarcerated in London for now, but he's too cunning to stay quiet. His presence there worries us.)

Ricardo raised an eyebrow. "Continúa."

(Go on.)

"El señor Salt quiere acercarse a usted — especialmente después de lo que pasó con Glenn. Massino lo mató y ni siquiera hubo una disculpa. El señor Salt ve potencial en una alianza."

(Mr. Salt wants to open a line with you—especially after what happened with Glenn. Massino killed him and there wasn't even an apology. Mr. Salt sees potential in working together.)

Ricardo's eyes darkened slightly. "¿Thomas Salt? Ese hombre no ha sido precisamente amable con los sudamericanos últimamente. Se rumorea que violó brutalmente a una turista colombiana porque la confundió con una prostituta."

(Thomas Salt? That man hasn't exactly been kind to South Americans lately. There are rumors that he brutally raped a Colombian tourist because he thought she was a prostitute.)

Joseph gave a stiff smile. "No crea en rumores, señor Martinez. A la gente le gusta inventar cosas para manchar la reputación del señor Salt. Él, de hecho, apoya mucho a la gente de aquí. Incluso su equipo de fútbol favorito es Argentina."

(Don't believe in rumors, Mr. Martinez. People like to make things up to tarnish Mr. Salt's reputation. He actually supports people from here. Even his favorite football team is Argentina.)

Ricardo stood and walked to the bar, pouring himself a glass of water. He downed it in one go, then turned slowly to face Joseph.

"No estoy en condiciones de hacer nuevos amigos, y menos con los que están profundamente ligados a la política. El señor Salt es un político astuto, y estoy seguro de que nuestra alianza se mantendría en secreto. ¿Estoy en lo correcto?"

(I'm not in a place to make new friends, especially not those deeply tied to politics. Mr. Salt is an astute politician, and I'm sure our alliance would be kept under wraps. Am I correct?)

Joseph nodded quickly. "Por supuesto."

(Of course.)

Without a word, Joseph pulled a check from his coat and placed it gently on the table.

"Un pequeño regalo de parte del señor Salt. Un cheque de cincuenta millones de libras esterlinas."

(A small gift from Mr. Salt. A check for fifty million pounds sterling.)

Ricardo picked up the check, examining it with cool detachment. Then a slow, amused smile spread across his face.

"Bueno… ya has conseguido mi atención. Pero hay una cosa que el dinero no puede comprar."

(Well… you've got my attention. But there's one thing money can't buy.)

Joseph raised an eyebrow. "¿Y qué cosa es esa?"

(And what's that?)

Ricardo's smile faded, replaced by a cold intensity. "Coraje."

(Courage.)

Joseph looked confused. "No entiendo…"

(I don't understand…)

Ricardo stepped forward, his eyes now burning with silent fury.

"Ese cobarde de Salt quiere que ataque a Massino — que limpie su desastre. Y cuando todo salga mal, me culpará a mí mientras él escala en la Mesa Alta. Ese es su juego."

(That coward Salt wants me to strike against Massino—to clean up his mess. And when it all goes wrong, he'll blame me while he climbs the High Table. That's his game.)

"Señor Martinez, no es así. Él solo quiere—"

(Mr. Martinez, it's not like that. He just wants—)

"¡FUERA DE AQUÍ!" Ricardo's voice thundered across the room as he threw the check at Joseph's face and drew a pistol from the drawer.

"¡Vete antes de que te mate!"

(Get out before I kill you!)

Joseph turned on his heel and exited the room immediately, leaving Ricardo alone once again—with only silence and a crumpled check lying on the floor.

Venice, Italy

Mr. Massino was sitting quietly in his chair, eyes closed, a cigar lazily dangling between his fingers. The smooth sound of vintage jazz floated through the air from an old gramophone. Peace.

A knock on the door shattered the tranquility.

He opened his eyes with reluctance, rose slowly, and walked to the door.

The cigar slipped from his hand.

Standing there—leaning on a cane, frail and pale as ever—was Mr. Valentina. But something about him was different. A brightness in his eyes. A soft, unsettling smile.

Without waiting for an invitation, Mr. Valentina stepped inside and gently sat on the sofa.

Mr. Massino let out a long sigh, walked over to the gramophone, and turned it off.

"Let it play. It's good music," Valentina said with a smile.

"No," Massino muttered. "I save it for my best people."

"Why so sour, Frederick? We're no longer enemies. We're family now."

Mr. Valentina pulled a small cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. Mr. Massino followed suit with another cigar.

"Should you be smoking?" Massino asked, exhaling a puff of smoke.

Valentina chuckled softly. "Why do you care? Smoke or no smoke… my health is already failing. What's the point of being health conscious now?"

Massino scoffed. "You've had the same illness for years—and the same whining. Neither seems to have killed you."

Valentina tapped the ash from his cigarette. "So, you were hoping I'd die? I'm sorry to disappoint you."

He smiled—cold, fake.

Massino returned to his chair, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and slid another toward Valentina.

"Your death brings me no joy… or sadness. To me, you're nothing. I consider you… nothing."

"And yet," Valentina said calmly, "it amuses me that you still blame me for all your miseries."

"Are you here to dig up the past?" Massino growled.

"Actually, I came to talk about the future. Our children's future. Annabelle is eagerly waiting for the wedding day. Where's Sonny these days?"

Massino coughed lightly. "The marriage was VPS's idea. Why didn't you resist?"

Valentina smiled. "Why didn't you?"

Massino nodded slowly. "My boy secretly likes your girl. I don't hate Annabelle. Maria would've been very happy if she were alive."

Valentina's smile softened. "She was a kind woman. But maybe she wouldn't have liked this."

Massino raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Valentina sighed. "Because it's happening out of compulsion, not joy. A sad wedding… is a dead wedding. She used to say that."

Massino stood and moved to the chair across from Valentina.

"She was my wife. She would've understood. But… if she were alive, the wedding would've been very different."

Valentina tilted his head. "How so?"

Massino gave a bitter smile. "She once told me that if Sonny ever got married… she'd personally let me kill you. I know she said it as a joke. But tell me…"

His eyes locked on Valentina, cold and unblinking.

Valentina rose slowly. "It's about time. I have to visit the church. It's Sunday."

He extended his hand.

Massino took it, his grip firm and empty.

"Do visit again," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Valentina gave a faint nod and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

Massino stood still for a long moment. Then he let out a long, weary breath—and collapsed to the floor.

Being in the same room as Mr. Valentina and not killing him had strained every nerve in his body.

He closed his eyes and slowly drifted into sleep.....