(Previously on confessions: At the coastal resort, beneath the makuti shade and the mocking gaze of a mermaid statue, Kot and I faced Yasir Amadi, the rich of riches, flanked by his silent secretary Rashad and the surly lawyer Antonella. What began with drinks soon sharpened into negotiations: percentages dangled, offshore shells proposed, exclusivity demanded. Kot raised his glass as if in toast, yet I tasted only the tightening of a noose. We thought we had won ourselves a dream deal, but even then, shadows clung to the fine print.)
“For men are made for happiness, and anyone who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God’s will on earth’,” Fyodor once said.
Well, I’d seen the rich, but the Amadis were the rich of riches, and Yasir Amadi, a freehanded hedonist, heavily invested in the business of pleasure and entertainment. Happiness.
We agreed, details of which I’m obliged to explain to you, my dear reader, for they were consequential in the avalanche that swept me under, and bore this long-winded story.
However, during the negotiations of the deal, there was information we weren’t privy to, or rather, I’d say, it was mentioned, but didn’t seem of consequence at the time.
“Four soon to be five continents,” Amadi had said of their hotel group, remember?
Now, here is the deal: We’d offer our exotic expertise across the group’s five stars around the world, all expenses paid for. We’d also have 100% creative control of the experiences, ‘guaranteed customer satisfaction,’ as we called it. And keep our contact list.’
In exchange, the group controlled the calendar, a concession we were willing to make, especially since they’d agreed to advance us a handsome retainer and cover every conceivable expense: first-class flights, penthouse suites, exclusive licenses, and even a private concierge to manage our logistics. All we had to do was show up and create the kind of unforgettable nights that money alone could never buy.
During the negotiation, Amadi had offered a sweetener, saying, “Forget quarters. Let’s go big. We’ll register a joint shell in Mauritius, route profits offshore, and keep governments off our backs. You’ll get thirty percent, clean. But you’ll also manage the risk; any fallout is yours to handle.”
Antonella’s pen had tapped against her glass, deliberate, metallic.
Kot chuckled and exclaimed, “Ah, so you want us to sail blind while you chart the course?”
I rolled the bourbon on my tongue, tasting both opportunity and a noose tightening.
“You plan, you execute, you take the cash. But we own the narrative, our brand, our hotels, our front. You’ll be the ghosts behind the curtain,” Rashad finally spoke, with a surprising sharpness.
“And you’ll deal exclusively with Amadi’s chain. No side contracts, no rival partners. Break it, and the deal folds overnight,” Amadi said. No side contracts, no rival partners.
Kot’s glass clinked against mine, and I couldn’t tell if it was in toast or warning.
“You’re awfully quiet, Obi. Isn’t it good enough for you? I know I’m a greedy man, I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” Amadi said, looking at me knowingly, like we were familiars.
Quiet? Perhaps. Or maybe I was listening too closely, hearing not the words but the trapdoors beneath them.
What did he know? All the while we bandied words, Darce hadn’t been mentioned. Was he chiding me?
I took a sip of my drink, looked at Kot, and caught the glint in his eyes. He liked the deal.
It was a dream deal, or so we thought, until the first ‘special request arrived, the kind that wasn’t in any contract but couldn’t be refused. The kind that comes after the moonlight has faded away, carrying the weight of blood and silence.
