The heavy door of the Red Lip brothel slowly closed behind Balibey, Cafer, and Gareth, and as it did, a suffocating air settled upon them. The interior felt like something pulled from a dream—but not one you'd wish to wake from. No, it was a dark, corrupting nightmare that drew you in. Women, nearly naked, with disheveled hair and garishly painted faces, waited along the staircase lined like crimson carpets. Some approached with lust, brushing against Balibey's arm; others leaned in to whisper into Cafer's ear.
Balibey lowered his gaze, trying to avoid the spectacle. Cafer's face remained stone-like. He turned to Gareth and whispered:
"From here on, it's our business. Stay at the door. Don't draw attention."
Gareth nodded silently and stepped back.
As they walked deeper inside, their eyes caught sight of a woman who appeared to command the establishment. She was older, yet still wielded her femininity like a weapon. Her red satin dress flowed to the floor, hugging her figure. She approached with a theatrical grace and greeted them:
"Welcome, gentlemen… What pleasure may we offer you tonight?"
Balibey stepped forward with a stern, composed expression. His voice was firm but controlled:
"We're slave traders. We have young, healthy women suitable for your establishment. Word is you pay the best price in the city. We want to speak directly with your boss."
The woman hesitated, scrutinizing them with suspicion and calculation. Finally, she gave a slight nod.
"Wait here."
Her heels clicked as she ascended the stairs. Her wide hips and exaggerated sway caught the attention of everyone in the brothel. Moments later, she returned with the same cryptic look.
"The boss will see you. Follow me."
Without a word, Balibey and Cafer followed her. They ascended the stairs and passed through a narrow corridor. From the rooms along the hall came laughter, moans, and the clinking of glass.
At a heavy walnut door, the woman paused. She turned without knocking.
"He's waiting inside."
The two men nodded and entered. The room was dimly lit, its walls covered in deep red drapes. Thick carpets bore stains from spilled liquor, and the air reeked of incense that burned the throat.
The man who welcomed them was thin but sharp-eyed, with dark rings under his eyes and unkempt nails—yet dressed in fine silk. He stood with open arms:
"Welcome, gentlemen. I am Paulo, master of this humble establishment. I've heard you have valuable goods. Please, sit."
Balibey and Cafer quietly took their seats. Paulo studied them carefully before asking:
"Why come straight to me instead of the market?"
Balibey stared directly into his eyes and replied calmly:
"The market's too low-profile for our kind of merchandise. The women we sell aren't ordinary. They're fit for premium buyers."
Paulo paused, biting his lip in thought. Then he smirked:
"You've piqued my interest. If they're as good as you say, I'll take them all. But I need to see them first."
Balibey bowed slightly. "Of course. You may inspect them."
Paulo stood. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's see them. Where are they being kept?"
Balibey rose, Cafer behind him. He pointed with his hand.
"Just a few minutes' walk from here, in a nearby storage house."
Paulo adjusted his shirt and nodded.
"Fine. Rafael!"
A massive man near the door stepped forward. His eyes were icy; his movements calculated.
"We're going. Follow us."
Rafael gave a silent nod.
The group stepped outside. Gareth approached quickly. Paulo eyed him curiously.
"And who's this?"
Balibey answered instantly:
"He found us the storage. He's our watchman. He was the one who recommended you."
Paulo grinned wickedly at Gareth.
"Well done, watchman. Next time, we'll reward you with one of our finest girls. The most talented one."
Though disgust twisted his stomach, Gareth maintained his role. He bowed slightly.
"This way, gentlemen," he said, leading ahead.
They crossed a few narrow Roman streets, moving from crowded paths to quiet alleys. Stone walls and shuttered windows surrounded them.
Paulo looked around nervously.
"How much farther? We're nearly at the Vatican…"
Balibey stopped abruptly. His voice turned cold:
"We're here."
Just then, a scream erupted behind them. Paulo spun around in time to see blood gushing from Rafael's neck. Cafer had stepped in silently from behind, his dagger still dripping crimson.
Paulo staggered back, shouting in panic:
"Do you know who I am!? What are you doing!?"
But before he could finish, a heavy blow struck his head. His knees buckled, and darkness swallowed him. The last thing he heard was Balibey's icy voice:
"Of course we know."
Then—silence.
—
Consciousness returned slowly, like a tide rising through a fog of pain. Paulo groaned. The back of his head throbbed as if someone had smashed it with a stone—which, upon remembering what happened, wasn't far off. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was in a dim, windowless room. The walls were stone—cold and bare. No furniture, no carpet. Just the echo of his breathing and the pounding of his heart.
He raised a hand to the back of his head, finding it wet and sticky. When he brought it forward, it was smeared with deep red. He cursed and stumbled to his feet, using the walls for support. Eventually, he reached the door and grabbed the handle—it was locked, just as he expected.
He stood in silence for a moment before shouting:
"Let me out! Do you know who I work for!? If you release me now, I'll overlook this madness!"
But his thoughts betrayed him. He muttered darkly under his breath:
"My first act will be to flay you alive and feed your corpses to the dogs…"
Just then, the door creaked open. A broad-shouldered man entered, followed by a familiar silhouette—one of his captors, Balibey. Paulo's pulse spiked, though he tried to hide it.
Desperately, he spoke:
"There's been a mistake. I'm not worth kidnapping. If this is about money, I can pay whatever you want. Just let me go."
The bulky man remained silent. He stepped forward and stood face to face with Paulo. In his eyes, Paulo saw more than a thug—he saw judgment, a greater power.
Balibey spoke from behind, with a mocking tone:
"Looks like Mister Paulo is overestimating himself, my Sultan."
That word—"Sultan"—echoed in Paulo's mind. His pupils widened. He recoiled in horror.
"Sultan…? You're… Sultan Murad?"
The man did not answer immediately. He held Paulo's gaze, then nodded.
"Yes. I am Sultan Murad IV."
Paulo's knees nearly buckled. This wasn't a kidnapping. This was judgment.
Murad's voice was heavy and deliberate:
"I've come to give you two choices. First—you tell us everything, testify against Leonardo in court. Second—you die here. No one will ever find your body. The choice is yours, Paulo. But you have until sunrise. I'll return for your answer."
With that, he turned and left. Balibey followed. The door shut behind them with a final clunk.
In the returned silence, Paulo sat down slowly. His breath trembled. His face was soaked in cold sweat.
"How did someone as clever as me end up like this?"
But there was no answer. Because now, before him stood not wit—but a power that passed judgment.
And that power would return with the morning light.