FORTUNE FAVOURS HER

Episode`10

Albert leads us forward, his authoritative presence guiding us towards Mr. Carnevale's side. As we approach, I catch sight of the glass pane through which the fights are being observed, well at least I was right about being watched.

The room is tense with anticipation, every eye fixed on the spectacle unfolding within the ring. Armed guards line the walls, their presence a silent reminder that this is a no-nonsense zone and these people are not duns of anyone who comes from Interpol. I look up at Albert but there is no expression on his face that I can read.

Suddenly, one of the older gentlemen rises from his seat, cigar in hand, and begins to approach us. His gaze rakes over Miran and me, assessing us with a predatory intensity that sets my teeth on edge.

I can't help but feel a surge of revulsion at his presence, his unkempt appearance and lecherous demeanor grating on my nerves. With all that money, he should be able to afford a personal dermatologist and a dentist. His attempt to touch my face is met with a subtle tilt of my head, a silent refusal to his advances. I try to hold in my face of disgust.

"This one is pretty, you think she tastes the way she looks," he remarks,'' never hand a black woman in my sheets,'' his hand hovering dangerously close to my face. I resist the urge to punch him, fixing him with a withering glare that betrays none of the disdain running through my veins. Inwardly, I boil with anger at his audacity, his arrogance shows a person born into wealth and power.

As he continues to linger, I suppress the urge to lash out, reminding myself of the precarious position in which we find ourselves. My survival depends on not running my mouth. And so, I hold my tongue, biding my time and steeling myself for the challenges that lie ahead.

"Stop hovering over her like that," Mr. Carnevale's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, his words a sharp rebuke that brings the older gentleman to attention. The man recoils slightly, his expression shifting from one of brazen entitlement to a semblance of contrition.

"My apologies, sir," he mutters, taking a step back and straightening his posture. It's clear that even in this den of power and influence, Mr. Carnevale's word is law, his authority unquestioned by those in his midst. But one guy stands out, the guy lying in the seat opposite Mr. Carnevale, his demeanour relaxed and carefree, as if he has no race in the world

"You are gonna show these ladies some respect," Mr. Carnevale continues, his tone firm but measured. "They may be your handlers shortly."

The four gentlemen in front of him don't seem amused, their expressions betraying a mix of surprise and discontent. Miran and I exchange a glance, caught off guard by Mr. Carnevale's unexpected declaration. Meanwhile, the men seated appear unsettled by the shift in dynamics, exchanging wary glances as tension simmers in the air.

''Are you taking a wife at last,'' says lazily the guy lying in the chair.

''No,'' say Mr Carneval, ''just some new positions, to keep some off you out of trouble.''

As Mr. Carnevale's words are heavy in the room, one of the gentlemen raises from his seat, his movements deliberate as he begins to pace around the room. It's clear that the implications of Mr. Carnevale's statement are not lost on anyone present, and the atmosphere crackles with an undercurrent of uncertainty and intrigue.

''What are you saying,'' asks the man passing around the room.

''They are women,'' another man injects

"Is it your mother's doing?" asks another man, his tone edged with scepticism. However, one remains unfazed, his demeanour calm and collected amidst the rising tension in the room.

"Miss Go," Mr. Carnevale calls out, drawing Miran's attention.

"Yes, sir," Miran replies, stepping forward with a sense of authority.

"Tell me all the gentlemen's names, addresses, and expenditures per year," Mr. Carnevale instructs, his gaze unwavering as he awaits her response. But before Miran can comply, he redirects his attention to me.

"Hold that thought," he interjects, turning to address me directly. "Miss Collins, how many tons of cocaine came in last week?"

"10 tons," I respond promptly, keeping my answer concise and to the point.

"How many businesses have you shut down as money laundering schemes in the first two weeks?" he continues, his piercing gaze fixed on me.

"10," I reply without hesitation, the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on me.

Mr. Carnevale pauses, considering our responses before addressing us once more. "So, do you wish for Miran to start speaking?" he asks, his tone implying that our cooperation is not merely optional. The room falls silent and the man who was once passing around sits down.

"My point is simple," he begins, his tone measured and deliberate. "In a world where power is often equated with brute force and intimidation, we often overlook the value of intelligence, strategy, and, dare I say, finesse."

His words seem to resonate with a few of the men in the room, while others remain sceptical, their expressions betraying a reluctance to accept this shift in dynamics.

"We are not merely creating positions for the sake of appearances," Mr. Carnevale continues, his voice carrying a note of authority that brooks no argument. "We are adapting, one where alliances are made with shared goals."

The old man looks at the gentleman relaxing in his seat,'' Mr. Cassano,'' he calls out,'' Are you okay with this.'' the relaxed man is Cassano, he remains in his laid position and shrugs his shoulders. He rolls his head back to face Mr. Carnevale and he closes his eyes. Is he sleeping? I wish it was this worry-free. Mr Carnevale looks at Mr Cassano for a while before continuing.

"In short, we need these ladies," Mr. Carnevale concludes, '' any questions.''

With that, a palpable shift seems to settle throughout the room, a silent acknowledgement of the changes within the organization. Whether it heralds a new era of cooperation and unity or merely serves as a reprieve from the tensions that simmer beneath the surface, remains to be seen.

''And how do we know they won't betray us,'' one of the men asks.

Mr. Carnevale's gaze flickers towards the older man, his expression remaining composed despite the challenge presented. "We don't," he replies simply, his tone unwavering. "But trust is earned, not bestowed. If they prove themselves capable and loyal, they will earn our trust in return."

There's a moment of silence as Mr. Carnevale's words sink in, the weight of his conviction hanging heavy in the air. The older man seems to consider this response, his expression thoughtful as he mulls over Mr. Carnevale's words.

"Very well," he concedes, albeit reluctantly. "But mark my words, Carnevale, if these women prove to be anything less than loyal, it will be on your head."

Mr. Carnevale meets the older man's gaze with a steely resolve, his expression betraying no hint of doubt or hesitation. "Understood," he says, his voice carrying a note of finality.

''I am no longer in the mood,'' says the older man,'' I am going home.'' he declares as one of the guards open the door and 4 men follow him behind.

With that, the tension in the room eases somewhat, replaced by a sense of cautious optimism tempered by the ever-present undercurrent of uncertainty. ''well,'' one of them says,'' I think this is the end of the meeting.''

Both men leave the room with their guards, leaving Mr. Cassano asleep on the couch. "Are you really sleeping?" Mr. Carnevale asks as he places his hand on his forehead in disbelief.