The meeting yesterday with Sandra Paoli was a calculated triumph, though I hesitate to call it final. The Corsican harbors a silence so complete one could mistake it for passivity, but each blink, each polite nod in those gilded antechambers of her legal firm, signaled the sharpening of her counter-strokes. I did not underestimate her: a woman whose bloodline once warred with popes and princes was not going to be cowed by transactional flattery or the threat of scandal. So I told her the precise details—names, dates, off-book shipments that would tip the balance of power on the Mediterranean route—and watched as the knowledge refracted behind her eyes, cold and diamond-bright.
Now, waiting in this sterile Madrid flat with only the hum of distant traffic for company, I rehearse every word exchanged and every silence left to rot between us. What will she do: cut me out altogether, or deepen our alliance until it strangles us both? It does not matter—I designed my gifts to be poisonous in any context. If she acts swiftly, I'll know she values efficiency over caution; if she delays, then she is gathering leverage against me even now.
I suppose I am assessing the effectiveness of her actions as much to test my own instincts as to judge hers.
During my time in Corsica, one of my memorable experiences was rescuing a woman from the local coffee shop. She had been spotted talking to us earlier, her eyes a mix of curiosity and intrigue. From the very first moment, a gut feeling tugged at me, whispering that this woman would play a crucial role in our unfolding story. Her presence was like a puzzle piece waiting to fit perfectly into our journey, and I felt an inexplicable certainty that she would prove to be invaluable.
Following my intuition, I utilised my system to evaluate her and discovered that she might be a potential assistant for me during my time in school. My gamer ability helps me identify valuable individuals when I encounter them.
I probably won't have heard anything regarding Albanians, and it was mainly a test to see her morals and what she does with the information provided. But I have already mentioned this earlier. SO i won't bore you with the details.
The thought of returning to the antiseptic clockwork of my Swiss boarding school after such a weekend of covert brinkmanship made me want to laugh out loud. It was presently Sunday—more precisely, the dead zone between late afternoon and whatever funeral hour they called evening in Madrid—and by this time tomorrow I would have swapped the velvet buzz of clandestine negotiation for the squeaky linoleum and disinfected air of a dormitory hall. The contrast had never amused me so much: one day, plotting the fate of Mediterranean supply routes with a Corsican warlord-in-heels; the next, stuck in study hall, pretending to care about theoretical ethics as if I weren't already living its blood-soaked footnotes.
But before any of that, I had to make it back across half a continent. My schedule would have been punishing for anyone not raised by wolves or oligarchs: check out from this temporary flat just after sunset, ride the unmarked sedan to Barajas under a false name, and slip through the VIP terminal with nothing but a battered duffel bag and a passport so new it still smelled like printer ink. The jet itself waited at a segregated hangar—windowless, sleek, painted a color somewhere between midnight and blue-black bruise. The tail number changed every fortnight, as did its flight crew; when you play games above certain pay grades, you learn to leave no pattern untended.
As I strode toward the aircraft in a borrowed windbreaker and jeans (one learns the inverse stealth of dressing down among those who think money must be announced), I caught myself grinning at the thought of my roommate. She—a creature made entirely out of caffeine and shrugs—would have spent the whole weekend gaming in our shared cell-sized room, and would now be facing her Monday with either existential dread or an endless playlist of Turkish trap music. Tomorrow morning, I'd walk in unannounced: "Surprise," I would say, "did you miss me?" And she'd roll her eyes as if I were a fly that had somehow escaped winter's cull.
But first, there was this city's dusk to escape and tomorrow's pretense to rehearse. The maintenance crew saluted as I climbed aboard, then vanished into their duties like chess pawns clearing themselves from the board. Inside: leather seats the color of bone marrow; backlit panels glowing with unnecessary information; chilled water bottles arrayed beside little tins of caviar no one outside boardrooms ever truly enjoys. In ten minutes we'd be airborne, skimming over mountains where border guards still told ghost stories about smugglers from families like mine.
Part of me relished these transitions—the violence with which my life snapped back and forth between worlds. Even now, as engines wound up and runway lights flickered past like Morse code for "run," I couldn't help imagining how Esperanza Salvatierra might spin my arrival in Lausanne if she were writing tomorrow's prologue instead of me. Would she see it as reinforcements sent too early or too late? Or simply another move in a game too old for its players?
Once I reached altitude, I'd have three uninterrupted hours to plan next week's opening gambit—to decide whether Amparo Rojas deserved my candor or just enough truth to keep her guessing. Either way, she wouldn't know what hit her.
They tell you that power is always best exercised at a distance. But I've learned that the purest leverage comes not only from what you know, but how much you can fake not knowing.
The jet roared down runway 7R and lifted off with all the subtlety of an exclamation mark.
The crisp mountain air carried the faint scent of pine as Amaira Casillas adjusted the folds of her niqab, her gloved fingers brushing against the soft fabric. It was her first week at Ecole de l'Aube, a prestigious boarding school nestled in the Swiss Alps, and already the weight of its grandeur pressed upon her. The grand chalet-style dormitory loomed before her, its wooden beams weathered by centuries of alpine winters. Inside, the warmth of a crackling fireplace greeted her, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. Her roommate, Leónidas Casillas, was already there, his tall, athletic frame lounging on one of the plush armchairs by the window. His blue eyes, sharp and piercing, flicked up from a leather-bound book as she entered, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Amaira felt a familiar flush creep up her cheeks. Leónidas was unlike anyone she had ever met. His confidence, bordering on arrogance, both intimidated and intrigued her. His olive skin, accentuated by the warm glow of the fire, and his short, curly hair gave him an air of casual elegance. She knew of his background, of the criminal empire his family controlled, but here, in this room, he seemed almost… approachable. Almost.
"You're late," he remarked, his voice smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. His accent, a blend of Mexican and the refined tones of the elite, sent a shiver down her spine.
"I was… praying," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She moved to her side of the room, her steps deliberate, her hijab swaying gently with each movement. The room, though spacious, felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space like a silent force.
Leónidas closed his book, setting it aside with a deliberate thud. "Praying, hmm? You're quite devoted, aren't you?" There was no mockery in his tone, only a quiet observation, but it made her heart race. She busied herself with arranging her books on the desk, her fingers trembling slightly.
"It's… important to me," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the spine of a Quran. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her, and it made her acutely aware of her every movement. The niqab, her shield, felt both comforting and suffocating in that moment.
"Important, yes," he said, standing and stretching his long limbs. "But you're more than just your faith, Amaira. Aren't you?" He took a step closer, his presence looming over her. She could smell his cologne, a rich, woody scent that lingered in the air between them.
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't know how to respond. Leónidas was right; she was more than her faith. But she was also fiercely protective of it, of the boundaries it set for her. Yet, there was something about him, a raw intensity that made her question those boundaries, just for a moment.
"I… I should unpack," she stammered, turning away from him. Her hands fumbled with the zipper of her suitcase, her fingers trembling as she pulled it open. The contents—modest dresses, prayer mats, and a few cherished books—spilled out onto the bed.
Leónidas watched her, his expression unreadable. "Need help?" he offered, his tone casual, but there was an undercurrent to it, a challenge she wasn't sure she was ready to accept.
"No, thank you," she replied quickly, her voice steadying. She began folding her clothes, her movements precise, as if the routine could ground her. The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of fabric.
As she worked, Amaira couldn't shake the feeling of being observed. She glanced up to find Leónidas leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on her. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even respect, that caught her off guard.
"You're very… disciplined," he said finally, his voice low. "Most girls here would be out socializing, enjoying the freedom. But not you."
She looked down, her cheeks warming. "I… I have my responsibilities," she murmured. "My faith guides me."
"And what does your faith say about… us?" he asked, his tone softening, almost tender. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.
Amaira froze, her hands stilling on a folded dress. "Us?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
Leónidas pushed off from the wall, closing the distance between them. "We're roommates, Amaira. Sharing a space, sharing… moments. Doesn't that mean something?" His voice was low, almost hypnotic, and she felt her resolve waver.
She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. "I… I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I've never… shared a room with anyone before."
He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a flutter through her stomach. "Then let's make the most of it," he said, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of her hijab. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a jolt through her.
Amaira held her breath, her body rigid. She knew she should pull away, should maintain the distance her faith demanded. But there was something about his touch, something about the way he looked at her, that made her want to stay, just for a moment longer.
"Leónidas…" she whispered, her voice a plea and a warning.
He stepped back, his hands raising in surrender, but the intensity in his eyes didn't waver. "I'm not asking you to compromise your beliefs, Amaira. I'm just… curious. About you. About us."
She turned away, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths. The room felt too small, too intimate, and she longed for the solace of her prayers, for the clarity they brought. But as she stood there, the weight of his gaze still upon her, she couldn't deny the stir of emotions within her.
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and for a moment, the world outside—the snow-capped peaks, the whispers of the secret society, the ghosts of the past—faded away. There was only the two of them, bound by wealth, by circumstance, and by something neither of them could yet name.
Amaira closed her eyes, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her niqab. She was a woman of faith, of conviction, but in that moment, she felt the first cracks in her carefully constructed walls. And as the silence stretched between them, she wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, those cracks were where the light could enter.
The chapter ended with Amaira standing by the window, her gaze fixed on the snow-covered peaks outside. The moon cast a silvery glow over the landscape, and for a moment, she felt a sense of peace, of belonging. But as she turned back to the room, to Leónidas, she knew that peace was fleeting. The journey ahead would be fraught with challenges, with questions she wasn't sure she was ready to answer. Yet, as she met his gaze, she felt a spark of something—hope, curiosity, perhaps even desire—ignite within her. And in that spark, she found the strength to take the first step into the unknown.