I pushed open the door to the lounge.
A heavy silence greeted me. Five men watched me with inquisitive, almost mocking eyes. Their suits were well-tailored, their postures rigid, and each of them wore a discreet earpiece. In the center, sitting with an air too relaxed to be natural, Claremont stared at me with a smile.
_ There you are at last, he said. You're on time!
I approached. The floorboards creaked under my steps. The gazes followed me as if I were a casting mistake. A lost kid in a meeting of bosses. Yet, I stood tall. No question of lowering my eyes. Let them all understand: I'm not here to play.
_ Out, ordered Claremont with a snap of his fingers. I want to talk to him alone.
Immediately, the guards exchanged brief surprised looks, then left the room without a word. The door closed behind them in an almost ceremonial silence.
Claremont showed me a chair opposite him. I sat down.
_ The family we're meeting tonight, he said, placing his hands on the armrests, isn't small game. These are important people. From Eastern countries. They want deals with me… officially.
He paused. His gaze darkened.
_ Unofficially, I understand well that they want to force me to bend. Scare me into saying yes. But I don't want to. I won't. They have a bad reputation… maybe even worse than mine, you see?
He leaned toward me.
_ Honestly… they scare me a little.
He looked at me as if waiting for a judgment.
_ So I ask you: can I put my life in your hands?
I stayed silent for a moment, then crossed my arms.
_ You can count on me. But… if I understand correctly, their visit is not cordial. They're not coming to negotiate. They're coming because they know you know what they are… and they think you'll fold out of fear.
He nodded with almost feverish energy.
_ Exactly! That's exactly it!
I looked him straight in the eyes. And without hiding the contempt in my voice, I said:
_ To think I thought you were more powerful than that…
He raised an eyebrow, visibly offended. He stood slowly and took a few steps toward me. His stature was unimpressive, but he knew how to occupy space.
_ Don't get cocky too fast, he said. You said you'd protect me, but you haven't done it yet. So lower your chin a bit, kid…
He stopped right in front of me, then held out his hand.
_ Yet, I don't know why, but I have this feeling. Like a premonition. With you, I feel like I can sleep peacefully. But… I still have doubts. Being a bodyguard means being ready to die for the other. What guarantees me you'll really do it?
I let out a slight sigh and looked away. He was exaggerating.
_ You're really worrying for nothing…
I got lost in thought for a second.
If I accepted this job, it's only so she stops worrying.
Jamila. She had told me dozens of times that I needed to find something stable.
So I took this. Even if it's a circus. Even if it stinks.
And the money… the money is good. Too good.
I resumed.
_ I'm your bodyguard. My mission is to protect you at all costs. So I will. That's it. That's my job.
He looked at me for a moment, then his face softened. A small smile appeared on his lips.
_ You really have a strange way of seeing things… It's like you're not afraid of death.
I didn't answer. My gaze slid toward the window. The sun was setting slowly, drowning the city in a blood-orange light. It was beautiful. And totally useless.
He held out his hand again.
_ Shake my hand, Natsa. If you do your job right… you'll have a surprise.
I turned my head toward him, intrigued.
_ A surprise?
He nodded, mysterious.
_ You heard right.
I grasped his hand. His grip was firm, mine too.
Without adding anything more, we left the lounge together.
And deep inside, I already felt this story was going to end badly.
They arrived like a scent too strong in a room too small.
I saw them pass through the glass doors of the main hall like a red and gray wave, a hurricane of calculated elegance, slow and confident steps. Nothing too much. Nothing too little. Every gesture, every look, every piece of clothing seemed to scream: look closely, vermin.
And everyone was watching.
Silence had imposed itself at their approach, as if the air itself had frozen. Even Claremont's elite guards, usually unshakable, seemed hesitant to meet their gaze.
There were six of them.
Three men, three women. All dressed in fabrics that must have cost the price of an apartment. Long velvet coats, dark shirts embroidered with pale gold, heels clicking without hurry. Jewelry, but none too flashy. Just enough to show they don't need to prove their wealth: their presence does it for them.
And above all, this peculiarity…
Red hair. A deep red, almost carmine. Each strand seemed to vibrate like a contained fire, tamed. Their eyes were steel gray. Cold. Calm. And yet sharper than blades.
They looked at no one. Or rather… they looked at all of us like one looks at rain on a window. Present, but insignificant.
One of them, the oldest, walked in the center. Tall, maybe in his fifties, hair slicked back, beard trimmed to the millimeter. He moved like a king without a crown, and the others matched their steps to his.
_ So this is Claremont… he said in a calm voice, but so clear that the silence grew even denser. And this young man… is he your human shield?
His gaze slid toward me. I held his gray eyes without blinking.
_ Hmm, he continued. A bit frail for such an ungrateful role, no? But maybe you hide better than others what serves as your fangs.
He spoke like playing chess. Slowly. Strategically. Every word was a pawn he advanced on an invisible board.
Claremont stepped forward with the commercial smile he wore at galas, pockets full of false appearances.
_ Roskarov family… what an honor. I hope the journey was pleasant.
_ Pleasant? said one of the women, young, blood-red lips and meter-high heels. This country is bland. It has no taste of power. Only the taste of compromise.
They looked at each other as if they had just shared a private joke at the expense of the whole world.
I remained still. My gaze slowly sliding from one member to another, recording every detail. The posture of the youngest, right hand often near his hip — hidden weapon?
The eldest, always with her hand on her bag — probably an artifact.
They had not come alone. Even without visible guards, their presence alone was already a declaration of war.
_ Well, said the main man, I am Alexei Roskarov. And you, young man, are…?
I didn't answer right away. Claremont turned his head toward me, a bit worried.
_ Natsa, I finally replied. Just Natsa.
Alexei smiled slightly. A joyless smile.
_ A short name. Like a bullet. We'll see if you're as fast.
I said nothing.
It was not a threat.
It was a disguised promise.
Claremont's private lounge was bathed in golden light. Glasses clinked lightly, held by gloved hands or adorned with massive rings. The scent of an expensive whisky floated in the air, mingled with that of cynicism and masked intentions.
I stayed in the background. Standing, arms crossed, gaze turned toward the room without really fixing anyone. But I listened. I was never the talkative type. Especially when snakes start to hiss.
_ I heard, began Alexei Roskarov, slowly sipping his glass, that Claremont Group's business is no longer what it used to be. Maybe it's a rumor. Maybe it's… something else.
He turned his eyes toward Claremont. Slowly. Fixed smile. Cold gaze.
Claremont chuckled lightly, but I felt he was forcing it.
_ Rumors travel fast, especially when they come from the East, Alexei.
_ That's not false, the latter admitted. But they also say speed is the mask of those who run from something.
The phrase hung suspended, like a trap set in a room full of traps.
Another woman, probably his sister, added in a soft but mocking voice:
_ By the way, your choice of bodyguard is… interesting. How to say… cute? She looked at me. A slow, almost lascivious gaze, but sharp.
_ A bit young, no? One might think you hired a model for a perfume ad, not a protector. Or… times are so hard that even you have to save money, Claremont?
The others chuckled softly. Even the glasses seemed to mock.
I didn't move. Not a muscle.
But in my head, every word lined up like a chess piece.
Disguised attack. Attempt at humiliation. Provoke a false move. Test limits.
I raised my eyes to the woman. A neutral, almost empty look.
_ You have an eye for detail, I said simply. I've often been told I'm photogenic. Too bad, I prefer weapons to cameras.
Claremont smiled, a little relieved that I didn't answer with anger. But the Roskarovs had already dived back into their little game.
_ You must understand, said Alexei turning again toward Claremont, that what we offer is not a deal. It's a direction. A trajectory.
_ And when a trajectory doesn't please one of the partners? asked Claremont politely.
_ Then, said Alexei shrugging, he's no longer a partner. He becomes an obstacle. And obstacles… you know what we do with them, at home.
He smiled. They all smiled. But there was no warmth in this room. Just the silent threat of a hand that could squeeze until everything breaks.
I watched the scene. Observed their hands. Their way of positioning in the room. Their manner of drinking. The slightest language tic.
All this was not a discussion.
It was a dance before the fire.
And I was the only person here not dancing.
I was the fuse.
They thought I was a decorative kid.
And for now, that suited me just fine.