FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER SEVEN

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

The dining hall was a theater of excess. Crystal chandeliers hummed with light, and the scent of roasted lamb and expensive oud hung heavy in the air. My job was simple: pour the wine, clear the plates, and remain a ghost. But Julian was vibrating beside me. He sat across from Mansour, a man who looked like he was carved out of polished obsidian and arrogance. Between them sat Layla, her eyes fixed on her plate, her hands trembling as she toyed with a diamond bracelet that I knew, with a sinking gut, had been a gift from Mansour.

"The Mediterranean routes are expanding, Mansour," the Boss said, leaning back with a glass of that 'missing' Bordeaux. He cut a sharp glance at me as I topped it off. "With the right...alliances...we could control the flow from Beirut to Marseille." Mansour smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached over and placed a heavy hand on Layla’s shoulder. She flinched, almost imperceptibly.

"Family is the best foundation for business," Mansour purred. He looked at Julian. "Don't you agree, Julian? Or are you still too busy with your...hobbies...to appreciate the value of a good merger?"

Julian’s fork scraped against his plate, a harsh, metallic sound. "I think some mergers look a lot like hostaged situations, Mansour. But then, I’ve always had a better vocabulary than my brother." The table went silent. The Boss’s eyes darkened. "Julian," the Boss warned, his voice a low growl. I moved in then, a calculated intervention. I stepped forward to refill Mansour’s glass, intentionally angled so my body shielded Julian from the Boss’s direct line of sight.

"More wine, Mr. Mansour?" I asked, my voice the perfect blend of servitude and silk. Mansour looked up at me, his lip curling. "The help speaks. How quaint." He looked back at Julian. "You should teach your staff that some things are better left unsaid. In my house, we cut out the tongues of those who interrupt." Julian stood up so abruptly his chair screeched. "In your house, Mansour, you probably don't know the difference between a conversation and a conquest."

"Sit down, Julian," the Boss commanded, his hand slamming onto the table.

"No," Julian snapped. He looked at Layla, who was now quietly crying. He looked at me, a flash of 'Mr. International' sparking in his eyes—a silent signal. "I’m going for a walk. The air in here is foul" and then stormed out without a backward glance. Mansour laughed, a dry, cruel sound. "He’s a spirited one. A shame he doesn't have your discipline, Al-Faye."

I followed Julian a moment later, ostensibly to fetch more water. I found him in the shadows of the hallway, leaning against a pillar, his chest heaving. "I’m going to kill him," Julian whispered, his eyes wild. "I'm going to take that ledger and I'm going to bury both of them."

"Not yet," I murmured, stepping into his shadow. "Anger is a poor translator, Julian. It makes you sloppy. You need to be precise."

"He touched her like he owned her, Mikael," he gasped, grabbing the lapels of my vest. "He touched her right in front of me."

"I know," I said, my voice hardening. "And that is why we aren't just going to ruin him. We’re going to erase him. But first, we need the key to the safe. The one your brother moved this morning." Julian looked at me, the fire in his eyes turning into something cold and focused. "Tell me what to do, Professor."

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."