Chapter Two

Morello beckons for us to continue towards the Del Pey Mansion. After we walk for some time, he breaks the silence.

"Please forgive me, my dear Arturia. It is your passion as much as it is mine to see the Grants dead, every last one of them. When I lost my Mama to brain cancer, brain stem tumor, that was what they called it—Paul was there. He stayed around. He became the only person I had in the world that I could call family. That was till you came along, my dear Arturia."

All the playful air and hysteria of the race has disappeared from Morello's manner. He has countlessly told me this story of how his and my father's brotherhood was born. It seems this is one of those evenings that stories are retold, but today the words don't feel the same. They are heavier, they are more urgent.

"Father would have been forty-five last month. Of course, he'd no longer be built like a greek god, but I wonder what he would have been like now. When he turned thirty, he was so upset that he didn't have gold in the Olympics yet and he had run out of time. I was so confused. He was very strong, he could compete in the next ten Olympics if he wanted. But no, he said that that was his last Olympics. He wanted that gold badly, he trained the hardest I've seen him. He was so sure he'd bring it home. But they snatched it all away from him. They snatched him away from us. Mark Grant, he—" I stop speaking, knowing that I wouldn't be able to continue in the matter-of-fact tone I hoped to explain it.

Morello nods to the words I don't say.

"It is all in your hands, Arturia, to avenge the death of your Pa. You have decided to do that at your own selected day. And truly it is your choice to make, but we must not err on the side of sentiment. Don't let the Grants slip from your fingers. You are one of Corpa Dio's finest soldiers, you are the daughter of the great Paul Cruz. It is imperative that you succeed, Arturia. You have to kill Jasper Grant."

***

I sit up on my bed, with a distinct feeling that something has just awoken me. Exactly what roused me, I'm still at a loss for. Scanning the gentle darkness of my room, I look over every detail, for anything amiss. Then I turn on my lamp and fetch my phone where it lies on my desk.

My phone logs a call at 4.55 am, two minutes ago, from a number I don't recognize. The phone rings.

"Are you ready?" calls a deep, gruff voice.

"Who are you?"

"Michelle," Jasper Grant's voice rings impatiently from the phone.

"Oh. I am sorry sir. I didn't know. You refused to give—I don't have your number, sir."

"Be ready in thirty minutes. I'm coming to pick you up. Where do you live?"

"I am sorry, sir. You—"

"You declined the company apartment. So where then is your apartment? I'll pick you up in twenty-nine minutes," Jasper Grant says with a trace of amusement.

"Umm. The Baldornets Valley. I'll come down to the park."

And he hangs up.

The man clearly has a warped understanding of work schedule. He calls me by four in the morning, out of the blue, and demands that I go with him to God knows where.

I start getting ready immediately, determined that he should not catch sight of which building I live in. The stairs are my chosen mode of flight, as they exit at the back of the building. I hurry to the park and I'm almost there when I see a red Audi approaching.

There is Jasper Grant, dashing and looking even more buff in a blue suit. I open his car door and smells of after-shave greet my nostrils.

He only acknowledges me with a sharp appraising glance from head to toe. And apparently satisfied, he drives off without a word. We drive in silence, Jasper Grant's face takes the normal grim expression. After a long time, the gloomy clouds, brighten until they welcome the rising sun. We drive around hill cliffs, cross a bridge and move past farms, when I realize that we have journeyed out of Monerco. To where?

Jasper Grant steps down the gear and clears his throat.

"How is your acting?"

I just stare blankly at him. Surely he doesn't expect that after hours of acting like I didn't exist, I would jump to answer the first absurd question he asks?

"Well?" He takes the first proper, though sour, look at me.

"How good is your acting?"

"Very good, sir."

"I bet it is. You're going to do a little bit of acting for me, Michelle."

This time I stare, questioning, searching his ungiving, almond eyes for some clue.

"We're heading to Malniken County. Those bastards at Repairs and Maintenance have been running the whole division afoul, ripping off clients, destroying vehicles in the name of repair, and dragging the name of Grant Motors in the mud." At the last phrase, his face contorts in anger.

"I built this place, carrying the bricks on my back. This place from where they can now feed their families. Grant Motors," Jasper Grant shakes his head gravely.

"Now their bellies are full. And instead of gratefulness, they choose to bring down the name of Grant," he turns, fully gazing at me as if to impress on me the gravity of the situation.

"What do you intend to do, sir?" I ask, hoping that I didn't overdo my look of concern for the threat of besmirchment on his sacred family name.

Jasper Grant returns to ease, turning back to the road.

"Yes, I will do something for sure, to Jonathan Crocker. He will be the example," he says offhand.

The outlines of the Repairs and Maintenance facility come into view— the central eight-story building jutting out a long distance from us.

"You are going in, Michelle. You are going to be a rich—eh. Whatever, you're doing the acting. But you're going to try to get a new engine. The latest model that's supposed to be classified. You will get it on tape. Also put on the charm, considering that you're—" he takes a fleeting glance at me.

"Well, he'll make a pass at you, get that on tape too."

As we approach the premises, there are two black buses parked, directly blocking the entrance. And unsmiling men wave rifles at us to advise us against coming any further.

Jasper Grant stops the car, his chest heaving in rage as he still holds the steering.

"Come with me," he says, in a barely audible rumble, opening the doors.

I step down, the pistol strapped on my thigh, still cold against my skin.

We approach the men and on getting a clearer glimpse of Jasper Grant, their hostile glances change to deference and salutations. Jasper Grant makes no response to them as he strides gruffly into the central building. And I feel their uncouth eyes following me.

In the central building, the staff are subdued, some outright terrified. And Jasper Grant's presence seems to even intensify the state of fright. We continue without a word until we reach a room door on the last floor. Two surly men are posted at the door, and they immediately part ways on seeing Jasper Grant.

We enter to find a curious ensemble. A lean man, with a chilling grey gaze, sits at the desk with a glass of golden drink. He is an older, rounder and less graceful version of Jasper Grant, but just as impeccably dressed and wearing a brilliant smile. I know him well to be Barth Grant or as he's more commonly known, Ice Grant. Close by on the couch, is a portly man with purple puffy eyes, a bleeding nose and bloodstained white shirt. And it is a wonder that one can still recognize him as the round man smiling with a gold ring, in a picture hung on the wall. On sighting Jasper Grant, he starts frantically.

"Sir, I swear—" a kick to the ribs by one of the men standing over him ends the outburst in a painful grunt.

"Little Jap CEO," Barth Grant calls out with a bright smile.

"What are you doing here, Barth?" Jasper Grant barks.

"Oh, I got wind of how, little Jonathan here, has been having a field day as manager. Soiling the name of the family. So I decided to visit, clean up a few things, take little Jonathan on a nice vacation," Barth, points to the weeping bloody man on the couch.

"I am CEO of this company, Barth. I decide how to deal with my own affairs. I don't need you coming up here and having your men wave their guns in clients' faces. You're only making things worse!"

"Of course," Barth Grant, says icily.

"But my! My! Who is this gorgeous creature you have brought with you here? You usually have bad taste Jap."

Barth Grant sets his withering eyes on me, walking past Jasper Grant, to me. He takes my hand and I freeze, even his touch is cold. His gray eyes squint in study.

"Forgive me, but haven't we met?"

I shake my head in response, hoping that my eyes don't belie my denial of recognition.

"What is your name, my dear?"