Chapter 162
"I…" Bob's voice was hoarse. He wiped his face, trying to regain some control in this negotiation, "I think you get what I mean, Barton. I'm paying you, a lot of money, to grab Amboni's woman. That Laura, the slightly chubby office clerk, not Vitale's precious little bird."
His tone was full of regret and a desperate need to fix his mistake, "Amboni, he's just a small fry, a guy who only has some power because of his family's leftovers and by sticking to Vitale's side. Last time, he ruined my underground casino, cost me a fortune, and made me lose face. I just want revenge, plain and simple. I want him to feel what it's like to lose something important."
Bob pointed at Barton, his finger trembling slightly from emotion, "But look at the mess you've made! You've gone and pissed off Vitale, the real emperor of Eldoria's underworld."
"Listen to me now. Turn back while there's still a chance. Quietly send Isabella back, drop her off somewhere, and pretend this never happened."
Bob's voice carried a hint of pleading, a stark contrast to his earlier arrogance, "I'll pay you the rest of the money, every last cent. I'm a man of my word, Barton, you know that. Take the cash, and we're done. We put this behind us. Deal?"
He looked at Barton with hope, as if this was the only sensible choice, the one that could save everyone from disaster.
But Barton just slowly shook his head.
It was a small gesture, but it hit Bob like a heavy blow, shattering his last bit of hope.
"No, Bob," Barton's voice was calm, steady, but carried an unshakable resolve, "I'm going to keep going with this."
"Why?" Bob was on the verge of breaking down, unable to understand, "Just for your damn ideal of taking down the mafia? Don't you realize you're going to get us all killed?"
Barton looked at him, a strange light flickering in his eyes—a mix of fervor, loyalty, and a deeper, colder calculation, like that of a chess player.
"Because Marco said so," Barton spoke clearly, each word deliberate, as if the name itself held some kind of power, "We keep Isabella tied up, tightly, and then we wait quietly, patiently, for Vitale to come to us."
"Marco?" Bob reacted as if the name burned him. His eyes widened, his face drained of color, leaving only a pale mask of deeper fear, "Is that priest of yours an idiot? Why would he go out of his way to provoke Vitale? I don't get it! I don't get this at all!"
Bob's thoughts raced back to a long time ago.
Back then, Marco wasn't some anti-mafia priest, nor was he the self-righteous, holier-than-thou figure he is now.
Back then, he was one of the most trusted lawyers under Vitale's father, Rhett. Sharp, efficient, and deeply respected.
Bob had only met Marco once, at a very private meeting about handling some shady assets.
Marco wore gold-rimmed glasses, a perfectly tailored expensive suit, and carried himself with precision. His eyes were sharp and cool, every bit the elite lawyer.
It was just a fleeting glimpse.
Later, Bob heard that Rhett ran into trouble, the family fell into chaos, and Marco seemed to vanish.
The next time his name came up, he had transformed into the spiritual leader and priest of Thorn of Justice, waving the banner against the mafia.
Things had changed, people had changed.
But no matter how his role shifted, in Bob's eyes, actively provoking someone as dangerous as Vitale—especially by kidnapping someone he loves—was nothing short of stupid and insane, a straight path to self-destruction.
How could someone as clever as Marco give such an order?
Unless he had another goal.
A deeper, hidden purpose, beyond just getting back at Amboni or even fighting the mafia itself.
That thought sent a chilling shiver through Bob, a fear colder than facing Vitale's wrath.
He realized he might have stepped into a game far more complicated and dangerous than he'd ever imagined, without even knowing who was really moving the pieces.
Barton didn't answer Bob's frantic questions.
He just watched the fear and confusion play across Bob's face. Then, he picked up the nearly burned-out cigar, brought it to his lips, and took one last deep drag.
The glow of the cigar lit up his kind yet unfathomable face.
Finally, Barton exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, stubbed out the cigar butt in the ashtray with a faint sizzle, and said nothing more.
"Stick to the plan, Bob," Barton finally said, his tone reverting to a brisk, businesslike brevity, "Do what you're supposed to do. The rest, the priest has under control."
Bob's eyes were like a deep, bottomless well, showing no ripple of emotion.
"Bob," Barton spoke again, his voice not loud, but like a stone tossed into a stagnant pond, breaking the suffocating silence in the room and pulling Bob's wandering thoughts back to reality, "I think you need to understand something."
He paused, making sure Bob's full attention was on him.
"Right now, this matter is no longer up to you," Barton said with a tone of undeniable finality, "The plan has started, the gears are turning, and Marco's will is our direction."
When mentioning Marco, Barton's voice carried a mix of reverence and loyalty, the kind of tone a believer uses when speaking of their god.
"Marco said," Barton continued, his gaze locked on Bob's eyes, "as long as you stay in line, play your role well, don't expose our situation, and don't try to interfere or sabotage the plan, he'll let you and your family keep living your lives in peace."
"Otherwise, let God redeem you."
Barton tilted his head slightly, a hint of almost pitying expression on his face, but his brown eyes held nothing but cold menace.
"You get it, Bob."
Bob got it.
He got it all too well.
"Redemption" in this world was never a kind, religious term.
It meant elimination, a silent disappearance, a complete erasure where not even a body would be found.
Marco might wear the robe of a priest and speak righteous words, but Bob had no doubt about the cruelty of the power he wielded and the methods he used.
He couldn't help but shiver.
It was the primal fear of facing a higher, unstoppable force of violence.
Bob realized he was like a pathetic puppet, thinking he was the boss hiring a hitman, when in reality, his strings had long been held by a more hidden, more powerful hand.
But the fear of Vitale was something else entirely.
It was a more direct, more brutal, more immediate kind of destruction.
It was the visible blade, the audible gunshot, the tangible, all-crushing rage.
Marco's threat was like the sword of Damocles hanging overhead, unknown when it might fall, while Vitale's revenge was like a bloodthirsty beast that had already broken free from its cage, charging toward him following the scent of blood.
To Bob, the latter's danger felt clearer, more deadly, right here and now.
The instinct to survive and the deep-rooted fear in his bones made him want to struggle one last time, even if hope was slim.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing fiercely, trying to moisten his throat that felt so dry it was almost smoking.
Bob glanced at the two cold-eyed guards behind Barton, then at the faint shadows moving by the door.
"Barton," Bob's voice was raspy as he raised a hand in a pleading gesture, "let your people step out. Let's talk alone, just the two of us, have a heart-to-heart."
His eyes were full of desperation, even carrying a trace of the camaraderie of old friends, hoping to stir whatever remnant of their past connection might still linger in Barton's heart.
Barton looked at him silently for a few seconds.
His face showed no expression, as if he was weighing the intent and risk behind this request.
Finally, he gave a slight nod.
Of course, he wasn't afraid of Bob.
In this cramped space, under absolute control of force, Bob—a businessman corrupted by wine, women, and money—posed no real threat to him.
Besides, Barton knew Bob. This was a man who valued his life above all else.
"Eva," Barton called toward the door.
Almost as soon as he spoke, the door cracked open.
Eva's cold face appeared in the doorway, her deep green eyes scanning the room, lingering briefly on Bob before turning to Barton.
"Take them out," Barton waved a hand, "Guard the door. No one comes in without my permission."
"Yes," Eva replied sharply, without a single unnecessary word.
She gestured to the two guards behind Barton.
The three of them quickly left the room, gently closing the door behind them.
The heavy iron door sealed off the inside from the outside, leaving just Barton and Bob in the room.
The cigar smoke hadn't fully dissipated, drifting slowly under the dim yellow light, adding a surreal haze to the shabby office.
"Now, Bob," Barton turned back to him, his tone calm, "what do you want to say, heart-to-heart?"