THE CLOCK READ HALF PAST TEN at night. The air was cold, pierced by a thin wind that stirred the treetops and made the yellow glow of the streetlights flicker. The Archangel was hiding near a cluster of trees, leaning against a damp trunk, carefully watching the activity behind L'oscar London. Every shadow seemed like a figure, and every sound — a potential warning. His eyes swept over the exits, the cars, the faces. Tension tightened around his chest like a knot.
That son of a bitch Faradday played dirty... When this shit is over, I'm going to settle the score with him... — he thought, feeling his anger grow like a fire consuming dry wood. He mentally planned every detail: the revenge, the reckoning, the right moment to appear. It wasn't just hatred — it was calculation. He allowed no mistakes.
With an earpiece connected to the listening devices in the top model's suite, he had been monitoring everything since she had ended the press conference and returned to her room. He heard the muffled arrival of the security guard, the rhythmic footsteps in the hallway, the service door closing. Until then, the conversation had been almost ordinary: she had exchanged only a few words with the guard and received a phone call from Jacob, congratulating her on the success of the press conference and finalizing details of her schedule for the following day. A mechanical voice, rehearsed compliments, every minute accounted for as evidence of routine.
— Who's there, Bronny? — the Archangel heard Jessyca's voice, clear through the connection, tinged with surprise and curiosity. There was a restrained laugh in her voice, almost childlike. The monitor trembled when she exclaimed.
— I can't believe it! — she exclaimed, and the door opened, the sound briefly echoing through the hotel corridor. A sharp click of the lock, footsteps entering, a presence taking physical form.
— What do you want from me? I'm tired of your lies... — said the top model, her voice hard, cutting like glass. There was weariness in that sentence, the kind that came from being battered by the press, from sleepless nights, from broken promises.
— Those clothes... You're... Babalon?! — the exclamation was filled with disbelief, judgment, and poorly concealed fear. A lingering accusation hung in the air.
— What the hell is that moron doing there? — the Archangel asked himself when he recognized Raphaniè's voice. — He's going to fuck everything up, like he always does!
The voice inside his head was both a whisper and a scream. Raphaniè had the irritating — and dangerous — ability to turn any situation into controlled chaos.
Inside the room, the rhythm of the conversation changed. There were pauses that sounded like traps; breaths that concealed intentions. The Archangel pressed the earpiece more firmly against his ear, trying to catch every nuance.
— You owe me an explanation, Father, or should I call you Ítalo? — Jessyca demanded answers, and the formality of her address carried a calculated coldness.
— You were right. I'm the "priest who talks funny"... — Raphaniè suddenly replied in a language the Archangel couldn't identify at first. It sounded strange, rhythmic, filled with consonants that clustered together in unusual ways. Probably, the Archangel thought, the Brazilian woman's native language, or perhaps a response designed to disarm her.
— Can we talk in private? — he continued, with excessive calm, asking for the kind of privacy usually reserved for confidences. There was something rehearsed about that calmness, the performance of a man who controlled the script.
— All right, Bronny. Knock in fifteen minutes... — Jessyca instructed, determined to keep the situation under tight control. Fifteen minutes to set the clock, fifteen minutes to prepare her voice, fifteen minutes to summon courage.
The Archangel heard footsteps, moving away and returning, the jingle of keys, the careful closing of a door. The inner tremor he had felt turned into heightened vigilance. The earpiece picked up the rustling of the carpet, restrained breathing, an electrical hiss that betrayed the recording device.
— Did you kill my father? — the Brazilian woman demanded in the language the Archangel did not understand, each word as heavy as a bullet. The question struck the air like a hammer; her tone was filled with accusation and pain.
— I came here, Jessyca, to ask for your forgiveness... — Raphaniè replied, his voice low, almost pleading. There was remorse — or a well-rehearsed performance. The difference between the two could only be seen in a person's eyes, and the Archangel couldn't see his eyes from where he was. All he could do was listen.
— Did you kill my father? — she asked again, her voice trembling, now fractured by an old wound that had reopened. She wasn't merely seeking a confession — she was demanding that the past become the present, that the truth emerge, however bitter it might be.
The silence that followed was absolute, suffocatingly thick. Outside, the city continued its indifferent pulse. To the Archangel, the silence was a warning: something was about to shatter.