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• Silas •

"Remind me again. Why the fùck do we have to do this?" Fabien complained, running a comb through his hair as he watched me from the mirror.

"Because, you whinging bìtch, number one: I have appearances to keep up, and that does entail throwing a waste-of-time fundraiser-ball bullshit for the poor fùckers of this city. And, second: I am going to auction my wife to weed out the motherfuçking traitor who eats, drinks and makes merry with us."

Fabien stopped glaring at me, a look of weariness gracing his face.

"You can't auction your wife! What are you - stupid? What kind of plan is this?" He hissed, turning to face me.

"Oh, here we go," I muttered as I did my tie.

"No. You cannot do this. This is low, even for you, Silas." He shook his head. "What do you expect to happen? That Serephina will gladly oblige? Who do you think is idiotic enough to pay for your wife? A killer's wife? A fuçking druglord's wife?"

I glared at him. "Which is precisely the reason why this is a masquerade ball, Fabien."

"How? I need to know how. Even if your 'plan' works, what the hell will it prove? This 'traidor' would not be so bold as to pull such a move! I need to know what in God's name is happening up in that fùcked head of yours."

"In a sea of more than a hundred men and women, each and every face hidden behind a mask, not a single person will come to know the true identity of my wife, she will remain a mystery woman, to be auctioned in the name of charity . Think about it, Fabien. There is a traitor in our midst who wants the same thing as the connect in America - my wife," I spat out the last two words, unable to fathom the thought of another man physically torturing my wife. "I don't doubt for a second that this insider will be tracking my every move, this auction will make them think they are in control, that they have outsmarted me. Remember that they have no idea I am even aware of their existence as a traitor."

"Hermano, this is by far the worst decision you have ever made. Man, this had better work, for everyone's sake and sanity but especially for Serephina's. I will go and find her." He spoke, leaving the office.

I paced up and down the room, my mind desperate to be able to pluck out a name, a face - the traitor living in my home.

Tomàs Gianni? My personal chef.

A staple member of every home run by a drug lord.

The man can cook, that much is for sure, but he lacks the finesse and skill-set to go right under my nose and attempt to pull off such a thing.

The traitor could not be Tomàs.

Amelle Soltz?

The Arab housekeeper gifted to me by a sheikh six years ago.

She was his 'precious little harlot' as he would refer to her - clearly not as precious as a load of pure coke; he had thrown her in to sweeten the deal, asserting it was as a gesture of goodwill.

She was not the traitor. She had not been abused once since her arrival, she was employed as a member of staff the second she was 'gifted' to me - not to mention, her language skills were utter shit.

There were the maids, the temporary staff, the bodyguards, the hundreds of people coming in and out of the house, the thousands of mere acquaintances, the fuck-load of enemies - maldito, this was not going to be easy.

My tireless train of thought was interrupted as the door to my office was flung open.

Anger rose inside of me as I turned to face the door, mentally deciding how this offender was to die.