CHAPTER 157: DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER ( LYCH’S POV )

"Yes?"

"I would like to speak with Lucrezia Akna."

"May I ask who is asking?"

"No. But I have intel on Luther Wilkers."

"..."

"Hello?"

"I will connect you with her personal line in a minute."

"Thanks."

So far so good.

Luther will surely be proud of me. Maybe he would actually feel comfortable enough around me.

Despite his bad flirting, he keeps getting up these walls. Which is pretty irrelevant to me to be honest.

But if I am stuck with a guy for the next two months and a half, at least I could bring a vibe to the function, right?

It’s fun.

It was fun until this. Now? I am not that sure.

After all, what is the purpose of running away from your overwhelming aristocratic house full of political intrigues if you get pulled into this?

"Hello?"

"Madam Akna?"

"Heard you got the intel. What do you want for it?"

"I am just a messenger for Luther actually."

"Oh?"

"He wants to negotiate."

"Hah. Why would I negotiate with a wanted criminal?"

"Because you need him. He is the leash you need to hold to keep Claus, Killian and Eugene in check."

"Eugene? Who the f-ck is Eugene?"

"Eugene Sanchez."

"You mean Emiliano Sanchez?"

"My bad. Sorry. Yeah, that guy."

"Who are you, child?"

"Are introductions really necessary, ma’am?"

"Fine. What does your master want?"

"Master? I’m not into that freaky stuff, ma’am. I’m a good man with traditional values."

I could hear a deep sigh behind the other end of the phone call.

This is fun!

She’s so easy to annoy.

"Sure, sure. Hurry up, kid, I don’t have all day!"

"Luther wants freedom."

"Freedom?"

"Yeah. He be acting like he’s Hamlet. All dramatic and stuff, but I get it. A bounty on his head like he’s from One Piece. All the police searching like he’s the Zodiac Killer. It’s a tough life like that."

Every time I crack a joke, there’s this pause—just half a second too long. Then she sighs.

Not dramatic, not loud, just that little exhale that says really? She doesn’t even try to fake a laugh.

Sometimes I hear her shift, like she’s leaning back or reaching for something, probably wishing she were anywhere else.

She’ll say something like "mm" or "okay" in that flat tone that drains the life out of the conversation.

No rise, no fall—just pure, cold stop talking. No laugh. No pity chuckle. Just the click of her patience wearing thinner by the second.

I keep talking. She keeps sighing. And I can hear the annoyance growing, one joke at a time.

I am having a blast!

"So he wants me to absolve him of all his faults?"

"I guess."

"How could I? I don’t control the law. And what do I have to prove that I can trust his word?"

"You be asking the wrong guy, ma’am. I am here to play the parrot and tell you what he told me."

"You’re useless then."

"No need to pull out the claws. God forbid a guy does what his husband asks of him! Anyway, I’ll hang up if you don’t want the deal—"

"No!"

Oh?

Luther was right. She is desperate.

And if my brother’s enemy and my father’s partener is that desperate, that means my family is desperate too.

Hard to imagine the big, bad Timoth and Mark Begniffelo frantic and without any control.

Maybe playing again in the political field was fun. Especially when the b-stard son was playing with his all-mighty father. And his perfect step-brother was watching.

"Well?"

"Say what he wants."

"He wants freedom and he wants to be included in your plan to kill the majority of the omegas."

"What plan?"

"He said you would ask that. He said to tell you not to play dumb. It ruins your outfit."

Lucrezia laughed maniacally on the other end of the call.

It started out loud and sharp, then escalated into something completely unhinged.

There was no pause, no breath, just wave after wave of chaotic laughter pouring through the speaker.

It wasn’t the kind of laugh that invited you to join in—it was the kind that made you stop and wonder what exactly had set her off. Her voice cracked a little from the intensity, but she didn’t stop.

Whatever she thought about Luther’s sassy commentary, she was clearly enjoying it way too much.

It was oddly unsettling.

"How does he know about my plan?"

"Don’t know. He kind of just stared blankly at the wall and moved his eyes involuntarily like he was overdosing. It kind of creeped me out."

"Yeah, you seem like the type to be scared of the thinking process."

"I am hanging up!"

"Don’t! My God, men these days are so sensitive!"

Luther warned me about her being such a man-hater, but I didn’t expect the hate to be that blunt about it.

"So the brat knows about my plan. Great! Just great— fine, let’s say I accept his terms. How do I know he isn’t just double-playing both me and Sanchez?"

"He expected that question as well. He told me to tell you that he wants revenge against Emiliano more than anything. If you don’t trust him, ask Killian about Lior."

"Who the f-ck is Lior?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Ok. I will make sure he is forgiven of all his crimes and then—"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"He wants back his reputation intact and his old place in Parliament."

"That’s impossible. Killian has his ministry now."

"Oh? Luther is going to be mad about this one."

Silence took over the call. No more talking, no static, just dead air. I pulled the receiver away from my ear and stared at it like it might give me answers.

Nothing. I held the phone tight and stepped back, the smell of old plastic and damp floor filling the narrow phone cabin.

The walls were scratched up, graffiti half-scrubbed away, and the flickering light above me made everything feel like a scene from a low-budget horror film.

Outside, the rain was coming down harder now—fat droplets pelting the glass like they had something to prove.

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and leaned against the door, watching the water race down the window.

The road was empty.

The nearest house was God-knows-where, and mine—well, mine was fifteen miles back, where I left Luther still half-asleep in sweatpants and a hoodie that wasn’t even his.

I smiled.

He’d probably still be on the couch when I got back, wrapped in a blanket burrito, half-watching some terrible horror movie and pretending not to miss me. Maybe if I played it right, we’d make popcorn, queue up something awful, and fall asleep halfway through, tangled up under that giant, ugly blanket we found dumped in the back closet.

The thought made the cold a little easier to ignore.

I quite enjoy his company. Even in the boring moments. At least for now.

"Fine. He can have his reputation back and his old job. But he is going to follow my orders without any complaints."

"I guess. How should I know?"

"Incompetents!"

"I am not into degrading talk. I can just tell Luther you didn’t pick up the phone."

"Are you coming in as a full package with Luther?"

"I sure do hope so!"

"Great."

"Awww, thanks, Lucia!"

"Lucrezia. Madam Akna."

"Right. My bad. Have a hard time remembering the names."

"You have a hard time with everything in general, don’t you?"

"Are you interested in me, Madam Araba?"

"Akna."

"Right."

"So now what?"

"Make Luther a free man and a week after he will see on the news his reputation cleared, he will come to you."

"He could betray me after I do my part."

"I guess it’s a risk you have to assume, ma’am."

Still holding the receiver, I was about to hang up when something cut through the silence—a noise, faint at first.

I pressed the phone back to my ear, squinting like that would help.

Screaming. Distant, panicked, raw.

Then came pleading, desperate and shaky.

I froze.

That voice—high with fear but familiar. It was him. The waiter. The pregnant guy from the motel. The one who slipped Luther the keys, bought us maybe five minutes to get out.

My stomach twisted.

He was begging. For mercy? For help? It didn’t matter. He was in trouble, and he shouldn’t have been. He was supposed to be gone, safe. But he wasn’t.

Then, as if she’d just noticed the open mic, Lucrezia scoffed—sharp and irritated, like she was annoyed the whole thing hadn’t been edited out in post. The screaming continued in the background, louder now, more frantic. She cleared her throat, once, twice, like she was trying to drown it out with professionalism.

It didn’t work.

I could still hear him, crying now.

I gripped the receiver tighter. My palm was sweaty. My jaw clenched.

She didn’t say a word. Neither did I.

Not that I had anything useful to say. What do you say when you’re listening to someone being tortured while the villain tries to pretend it’s just a bad connection?

"I expect the phone call after the news is streamed on TV."

The line went quiet again—dead quiet this time.

Luther is going to be mad.