Klei was sitting, bruised and battered, in a suite at a lavishly decorated high-end hotel.
He was obviously dissatisfied and indignant about his arrest, his gaze continually shifting among the special agents donning leather jackets with triskelion epaulettes standing nearby.
These men had suddenly emerged from the shadows and attacked him with apparent madness, yet never to the point of lethality. Not until he was beaten into vomiting blood, rendered powerless to resist, did they drag him into a car and bring him into this room.
"My men might have been a bit aggressive, but I was anxious, so don't hold it against them, Mr. Ernest Kreine. Come on, have a cup of tea, and let's discuss some matters I'm keen to know."
Sitting opposite Klei was a man who, at first glance, seemed exceedingly young, yet as he reclined casually on the sofa, he inexplicably gave Klei a sense akin to facing Sandro, or even someone much more formidable than Sandro.
He pushed a cup of hot tea toward Klei.
