Chapter 161
At the same time, in another room, Bob Harrison was roaring, "You've got the wrong person, Barton! You've messed up big time!"
Barton leaned back slightly, sinking into his leather swivel chair.
The cigar between his fingertips had burned halfway, its dark red glow flickering in the dim room, sending up thin, straight wisps of smoke.
He sat there calmly, with a hint of amusement, watching the furious Bob.
Bob's face was flushed, veins bulging on his neck as he panted heavily. His eyes were like nails, pinned on Barton's face.
In the middle of this outburst, as if his anger wasn't enough, he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked over a wooden chair nearby.
The chair crashed onto the concrete floor with a groan, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
In the shadows behind Barton stood two silent guards. One was the towering, iron-like man who had knocked out Isabella at the dock. The other was lean and wiry, like a cheetah.
Almost the instant Bob moved, their hands were on the gun handles at their waists or the knife hilts at their backs.
Their muscles tensed, like bowstrings ready to snap.
The air in the room froze, thick with tension.
But Barton just raised his hand slightly, his movement slow and casual, not even changing the near-indifferent expression on his face.
He waited until Bob's heavy breathing calmed a bit before speaking in a leisurely tone.
"Got the wrong person? That's already a done deal, Bob," Barton exhaled a smoke ring, the haze blurring his kind-looking features. "Things have moved forward with this new storyline. Turning back now would not only waste all the setup we've done, but it might also expose even more."
He leaned forward, resting the cigar on the edge of a rusty tin ashtray on the desk. With his hands clasped on the table, his brown eyes pierced through the smoke, looking straight at Bob, "As for being scared? No, quite the opposite. I think we've got a better card in our hand, one you might not even fully realize the value of."
"Isabella," Barton said the name slowly, "Bob, you've heard of her, haven't you? She's not just some clueless rich girl who only knows how to cry and spend money."
Bob straightened up, still panting, his gaze hostile but now mixed with a trace of doubt.
"Her importance to Vitale is far beyond what you can imagine," Barton continued, his tone confident, "Vitale, that man—cold, suspicious, cunning, like a black panther always lurking in the shadows. He has almost no weaknesses. His empire is built on blood, fear, and absolute control. But Isabella…"
Barton paused, a faint, pleased smirk curling his lips, "She's the one crack in his armor. Grab her, and you've got Vitale's heart in your hands. He'll panic, lose his cool, and do reckless things he'd never do otherwise just to save her. Do you get it, Bob? An opponent who loses their calm is the easiest to take down."
"Of course I get it," Bob's voice rose again with agitation, mixed with a hint of unease as if Barton had hit a nerve, "I'm not new to this game. I know she's Vitale's weak spot, but Barton, hear me out."
He waved his hand forcefully, as if trying to clear the unsettling fog in front of him, "She's a good card to play, sure, but she's also a ticking time bomb with the fuse already lit. Do you even know what's going on out there right now?"
Bob took a step forward, slamming his hands hard on the desk in front of Barton, making the ashtray jump, "Harold, my good friend Harold, got nabbed by Vitale's men last night at his secret villa. Vitale himself led the raid."
His voice was full of disbelief and lingering fear, "Do you know how many lookouts and hidden guards I had around that villa? My guys tried everything—every trick in the book, even posing as city workers or delivery guys to get in and check things out or get Harold out. And guess what? They couldn't even get near the gate. Vitale's men have the place locked down so tight, not even a fly could get in without being checked!"
Sweat beaded on Bob's forehead. He wiped it roughly with the back of his hand, staring hard at Barton, trying to spot even a flicker of nervousness or hesitation on his face, "And Vitale himself? He's like an enraged lion right now, tearing through every corner of Thalassia with his men, hunting like crazy!"
"His rage is already burning, Barton. You shouldn't be sitting here analyzing weaknesses with me. You should be scared! You kidnapped his woman! You've poked the queen bee in the hornet's nest!"
Despite Bob's spit flying almost into his face and the barrage of bad news, Barton's reaction was eerily calm.
He even picked up the cigar again, took another drag, letting the smoke swirl in his lungs before slowly exhaling.
The pale smoke curled upward, forming an invisible barrier between him and the agitated Bob.
"Why should I be scared, Bob?" Barton's voice came through the smoke, still slow and steady, even carrying a faint trace of curiosity, as if he were genuinely pondering the question.
In the dim light, his eyes seemed to hold a deep, unfathomable glint.
"I've got the Priest behind me," Barton said softly, but his words carried heavy weight, "You know what I mean."
Bob's rant stopped abruptly, as if someone had choked him.
The anger and anxiety on his face froze, slowly replaced by a complicated mix of wariness and understanding.
Of course, he knew who the Priest was.
Marco.
That name alone represented a kind of immunity and an even larger shadow.
"I'm not fighting alone, Bob," Barton continued, his tone even taking on a soothing edge, though it sounded more like a condescending reminder, "We're a team, a group with faith, organization, and support from higher powers."
He set the cigar down again, his posture relaxed, as if discussing tomorrow's weather, "As for you, Bob, you paid me to get things done. We agreed that I call the shots. I'll make sure this is handled perfectly, achieving both our goals—your revenge on Amboni, and our strike against the mafia, especially Vitale."
Barton lowered his voice, speaking with a persuasive sincerity, "So, don't be scared. I promise you, this won't drag you down. The Priest will handle any official attention or potential trouble."
"All you need to do is keep playing your part as a partner, provide the info I need, and wait for the results."
His words made sense, but instead of relaxing, Bob let out a short, scornful snort through his nose.
Before the sound even faded, Bob suddenly moved.
His speed was shocking, not at all like a businessman worn out by booze and an easy life.
He lunged forward across the not-so-wide desk, his right hand shooting out like a vice, grabbing Barton's shirt collar with a fierce grip.
"You—!" The two guards behind Barton shouted in unison, instantly drawing their weapons.
The black barrels of a gun and the cold glint of a dagger pointed straight at Bob's head and back.
One look from Barton, or any further move from Bob, and blood would spill.
But Barton's reaction was, once again, unexpected.
Even with his collar grabbed and his body pulled forward slightly, there was no panic on his face.
He even raised his free hand again, waving calmly to the guards behind him.
"It's fine," Barton said, his voice even carrying a hint of a smile, though slightly distorted by the pressure on his neck, "Relax, boys, no need to worry."
He looked up at Bob, whose enraged face was inches away, and spoke slowly, "You know, this is our valued partner, Bob. If he really hurt me here…"
Barton paused deliberately, letting the threat in his words sink in.
"He wouldn't get away with anything either. The Priest wouldn't appreciate a partner who messes up the plan. And without the Priest's protection, do you think you could face Vitale's wrath alone? Or deal with my slightly impulsive boys here?"
His gaze pointedly flicked to the cold gun barrel and knife edge behind Bob.
Bob's chest heaved violently, his fingers gripping Barton's collar so hard his knuckles turned white.
He could smell the odd mix of cigar, old clothes, and a faint metallic scent on Barton.
He could see the unshakable calm in Barton's eyes.
A few seconds felt like centuries.
Finally, Bob seemed to lose all his strength, the taut string inside him snapping.
With a low growl of frustration and resignation, he let go abruptly.
Barton swayed slightly from the release but quickly steadied himself.
He didn't even bother fixing his wrinkled collar, just smoothed a crease on his chest with a calm, unhurried motion.
Bob stumbled back a couple of steps, leaning against the leg of the chair he'd kicked over earlier.
He looked instantly older and exhausted, the earlier aggression and arrogance gone, replaced by a deep sense of helplessness and the panic of being caught in a massive, unstoppable whirlpool.