Chapter 72: 72
Zamiel paused in the doorway as if the threshold were another kind of stage. The room beyond was a study swallowed by dusk and heavy curtains drawn. A single chandelier casting a low, amber pool over a long mahogany table. Around it sat the elders of the dynasty, faces like weathered maps, each line a ledger of old grudges. Velvet sleeves, and gold rings dulled by time, a scatter of military pins and frayed lapels. Some clutched prayer beads; others held whisky glasses that trembled in steady, practiced hands.
Their gazes, when they finally took him in, were a map of contempt thin-lipped, narrowed, and bored with the very sight of him.
He let the door click shut behind him. The sound was small, but the room took it as punctuation. A corner of Zamiel’s mouth lifted; the smile was a scalpel small, clinical. He moved to an empty chair as if he owned the air it displaced. When he sat, the leather exhaled beneath him. Before he reached for the glass before him, he let the quip fall into the silence like a dropped coin.
"So this is what the Bible meant when it said, He will prepare a table in the presence of my enemies," he said, smirking the words soft as silk but edged with steel. A ripple moved around the table, half laughter, half disgust.
"We are not your enemies," said a narrow-shouldered man in a threadbare suit, his voice like a paper cutting. He stared at Zamiel as though trying to read the ink beneath his skin.
"And neither am I your friend," Zamiel returned lightly. "But what you seek, I can provide."
His gaze swept the table slowly, taking inventory: the old man with the scar that never healed; the matriarch whose hands kept folding like a fan; the younger steward with the permanent crease between his brows. Fury flickered across their faces, tight mouths, reddened veins at the temples, eyes that barely blinked. Their resentment became a tangible thing, a low hum in the air.
"They’ve gotten rid of the scientists, so what’s next?" someone asked, his voice steadier than his hands.
"We cannot allow Nathan’s son to become the heir, we’ll all end up in trouble," another said, the bravado in his tone failing to mask the worry underneath.
The name Nathan tightened Zamiel’s jaw for a breath, and for the first time a small sound almost a chuckle escaped him. He had always wondered why the scientist had been made invisible to them. Now he saw it clearly: a mirror, the invisible hand shaping the visible players. Their disappearance had never been absent; it was deliberate concealment, and that, he thought, was an advantage they had underestimated.
"Kill Carmela, and your problem is over," Zamiel suddenly suggested, cutting them off.
He lifted his glass of wine red and slowly and took a measured sip, watching the liquid cling to his lips. His eyes never left the speaker’s face.
"Do you think we are mad?" another man barked. "He is possessive of her! Are you here to help us or kill us, you young brat? Which side are you on?"
His palm slammed against the table, the sound cracking the room’s brittle patience.
Zamiel’s eyes narrowed. The air around him seemed to cool; if fear had a temperature, it slid down the spine. His aura did not roar, it tightened. Shadows lengthened, as if even the light itself leaned away. The small hairs on the arms of the nearest man rose; someone else unconsciously retreated into a single syllable of breath. The chandelier’s glow thinned, paling under his silence.
"I’m on no one’s side," Zamiel said, voice flat as a blade. "I only gave you a suggestion because you asked for one." He let the words hang, deliberate and slow. "He is possessive of her... now imagine what hell he’ll descend into if he loses her."
He rose without waiting for a response, the chair whispering against the floor. No one moved to stop him. He slipped past the elders like a shadow that chose its own edges, and the door closed softly behind him. The dynasty was left in the residue of his visit unsettled, exposed, and newly aware that the chessboard held pieces they had not yet seen.
Meanwhile, Carmela stood before an ice cream truck, holding Cicilia by one hand. She stared, confused, at the man before her, a stranger with a polite smile fixed on his lips.
"Aunt," Cicilia tugged at her sleeve, "Uncle said we shouldn’t leave the house without informing him."
Carmela only rolled her eyes, her attention still caught by the stranger. The air between them hummed faintly too still as though the world itself were holding its breath.
"Are we his prisoners?" Carmela muttered, scoffing as she rolled her eyes. "He promised to spend the next week with me, but he left without a word."
She exhaled and forced a smile for the little girl beside her. "Don’t worry, we won’t go far. We’ll just get ice cream and come right back, okay?"
Cicilia nodded, her small fingers tightening around Carmela’s hand.
"Dear, are you ready to place your order?" the elderly man inside the truck asked, drawing Carmela’s attention back to him.
"Honestly, I don’t know what to order," she admitted. "I’ve only tried chocolate, but you’ve run out of it."
He gave a kind smile. "How about I suggest something else? My daughter always trusts my judgment and I’m never wrong."
Carmela tilted her head. "How old is your daughter?"
"She’s nineteen," he said proudly.
Carmela’s lips curved faintly. Both his daughter and she were about the same age, yet she couldn’t remember the last time she trusted her own father’s judgment that way.
"How about you try this?" The man held out a cone. "It’s mango flavor. My wife used to love it."
Carmela took a tentative bite, then gave a small nod. "I guess I’ll have to trust your judgment like your daughter. I’ll take one more for her," she said with a smile.
With a nod, he scooped another cone and passed it to her. She reached into her purse, but his next words froze her mid-motion.
"You remind me of my wife," he said softly.
Her gaze narrowed for a second before she managed a polite smile.
"She had the same eyes as yours," he added, still smiling.
"Well, your wife and daughter must be as beautiful as I am then," she teased lightly.
"Of course," he chuckled but as his shoulders rose, his bright expression slowly dimmed, though the smile never left his face.
"What’s wrong, sir?" Carmela asked, noticing the sudden change.
"Honestly," he murmured, voice low and distant, "I don’t even know what my daughter looks like. She’s missing."
"Oh my, I’m so sorry, I.." Her words broke off as she caught sight of a figure approaching from across the street. "I hope you find your daughter. I really have to go nowbbye!" She hurriedly placed the money on the counter, swept Cicilia into her arms, and bolted.
"Carmela! Didn’t Nix ask you not to leave home?" Justin shouted, half running after her.
But Carmela only quickened her steps, panic tightening her chest. Behind them, the ice-cream man let out a soft, knowing chuckle.
"She’s truly a replica," he sighed, removing the vendor’s cap and apron. Beneath them, his demeanor shifted no longer kindly, but sharp and deliberate.
From the shadows behind the truck, Zamiel sat with one leg crossed, watching.
"I suppose lying and deceit run in your family," he said coolly.
The man ignored the remark, folding the discarded uniform with neat precision before setting it aside.
"Don’t you have work to do? You seem to be slacking lately," the man retorted, picking up his phone.
"Thanks to you I’ve gotten even busier," Zamiel said, stretching as he rose. "The dynasty old men want to get rid of her."
"Did they say that, or did you suggest it to them?" the man asked, narrowing his eyes.
Zamiel only chuckled. "What do you think? She has barely two months left. If she dies from the illness, Nix would be shattered. But if they kill her, the opposite happens everyone dies. After all, she’s going to die in the end; I’m only trying to put her death to good use." He sighed and scooped himself another spoonful of ice cream.
"You’re trying to collapse the dynasty?" the man asked, his tone calmer than Zamiel expected.
"Not collapse, end it," Zamiel scoffed, popping the spoon into his mouth. "I’m tired of its sinister dealings, and I don’t care who drowns with it."
"Do whatever you want. I don’t care," the man said, earning a small chuckle from Zamiel.
"You sure you truly don’t care?" Zamiel asked, letting the silence stretch. "You’ve been working tirelessly behind the scenes to protect her... so when are you going to tell her that the daughter you spoke of is her?"