Page 21 of Warlord’s Empire

“Why give me a phone at all if I can’t use it?” she asked, glaring at him.

“It works,” he insisted, an edge of steel in his voice. “You can use it to call me, Nikka or any other member of this compound. This security measure applies to everyone here.”

“How do you make calls out?” she demanded. “I assume the head honcho must be able to contact the outside world somehow.”

“We have satellite phones for when an outside call must be made, but for the most part, we try to maintain our self-sufficiency. It’s safer that way.”

“Safer for you or the people who live here?”

“Both,” he said easily. “Now come eat.”

When she turned around, she was surprised to discover a feast had been laid out while they were talking. “You have some amazing staff,” she told him as he pulled her chair out, pushing her in as she sat.

“I have some good friends,” he said, sitting across from her.

She studied him for a moment before saying, “You said it yourself when we were driving in, you’re the master of Marifiya, yet you’re uncomfortable with hierarchy among your people. What gives? Most men I know are happy to place themselves above others.”

He picked up a bun from the breadbasket and tore it in half. “I’m aware of the quality of men you’ve had contact with. Mafia and government. Men who vie for power.”

“Don’t forget the university,” she muttered, watching with fascination as he bit into the bread, his teeth flashing in the encroaching darkness. “Different pond, same fish.”

His eyes narrowed. “I am aware of the professor you had an argument with. I believe you corrected an inaccuracy in his dissertation, which led to his accusing you of plagiarism.”

She gasped, her hands freezing in the process of buttering her bun. “It was you!” The pieces of a two-year old puzzle fell into place.

In her last year of university, one of her professors had begun a vendetta against her when she’d dared to correct his work. She’d had to defend her essay from his plagiarism claim, escalating the case to the dean of the university when it began to look like she would be expelled. Then the day before a decision was to be made, the professor became the victim of a hit and run accident. He hadn’t died, but he wouldn’t be teaching again any time soon. At the time, she believed her cousin had arranged the “accident”. Jozef hadn’t denied it, but now she understood why he looked confused when she accused him. He hadn’t known about any of it until she told him and by then, the issue had been resolved by someone else. By Radik.

“I don’t know if I should be mad at you or thank you.”

Instead of addressing her comment, he handed her a plate of rice. “Try the moambe chicken with the jasmine rice. It’s delicious.”

Saskia followed the change in subject. “The food looks amazing.”

“Nonna takes care of my household. She was a chef before coming to us and is highly trained in cuisines from around the world. She’s a gem and I’m grateful to have her here.”

“How did she come to be here?”

He looked thoughtful, setting down his fork as he spoke. “Nonna and Nikka were displaced from their home a few years ago. Civil war tore apart the city where they lived, killing Nikka’s parents, and Nonna thought it best to get her out before they too became casualties. They lived in a refugee camp for several months before I met them while dropping off supplies. Nonna was camp cook at the time and when she found out I needed a chef of my own, she pitched herself and added Nikka to the deal as my live-in housekeeper. They’re happy here, but I know they want to return home one day. At the moment, it’s still too dangerous for them.”

A stab of sympathy took away some of the jealousy Saskia felt over Nikka. It sounded like she’d been through a lot. “Why do I get the sense every person here has a story?”

“Every person on the planet has a story,” Radik countered. “The people inside these walls are no different.”

“Mmmm, but the stories of the people residing here are probably more interesting than most.”

“Sadly, many of our stories are the same. War, corruption, displacement.” Radik took her hand where it was resting on the table and caressed the back of it. “Yours is the only story I’m interested in.”

She was caught in his spell, held captive, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too. How was she supposed to fight this feeling and go back to living her life?

She licked her lips, saying, “My story took an interesting turn over the past few days.” She straightened in her seat, becoming more serious as she recalled just how interesting her life had become. “I need to find out what happened to Aurelia and why.”

Radik leaned back in his chair. “I have people looking into it.”

She shook her head. “I was there, I want to be part of the investigation. I need to talk to the police, tell them what happened.”

“That’s not going to happen.” His voice was flat, final.

Saskia had been around the mafia block enough to read between the lines. “You bribed the police to keep you updated on the investigation.” He inclined his head. It was an easy guess. It’s what Jozef would have done. “I don’t care if you insinuate yourself. In fact, probably better that you do as I’m guessing you have more resources than the Pretoria police department. But Radik, I need to be in on the investigation. I need to know what happened. She was my friend.”