Chapter 11: "Okie!"
Aren’s expression turned troubled.
"Ah, the terms... I don’t think it would be right of me to share the details of a private briefing with a third party."
Isidore finally looked up from the tablet. His green eyes settled on her, voice cold and absolute.
"I’m not signing with people I can’t trust."
Aren’s voice grew softer, quiet yet resolved. "Then I’m afraid I can’t sign a contract with you. Loyalty to a client is very important."
"I offered your House the highest bid among three Houses," Isidore countered flatly. "A billion dollars and interest-free loans for future restoration."
Aren stood from her seat and bowed.
"I apologize for wasting your time, Mister Accardi. I shall take my leave now."
One of Isidore’s brows shifted upward by perhaps a millimeter.
A dramatic reaction, by his standards.
’No bargaining.’
His gaze followed her calmly as she walked toward the door.
’No hesitation either.’
"Come on, Biscuit, let’s go," Aren called.
The dog immediately rose from the corner and trotted after her. Just as her hand touched the door handle—
"Signorina."
Isidore’s voice cut through the room with sudden authority.
Aren paused and looked back at him.
"Sit."
He gestured toward the chair.
Aren studied his face for a moment. He no longer looked interested in extracting information about the Sartori contract. More importantly, he looked... reasonable again.
A small smile returned to her face as she returned to the chair.
"Thank you," she said warmly. "I appreciate your understanding regarding confidentiality."
Biscuit, however, shared none of Aren’s optimism. The little dog returned to the farthest corner of the office and sat down, his back pointed toward Isidore.
Isidore gave the dog no mind. He set the tablet aside and brought his hands together atop the desk, fingers slowly interlacing.
For the first time since Aren had entered the room, she had his full, undivided attention.
"My terms," he began.
His words came cold and fast, delivered with the rapid-fire precision of a machine gun.
"House Accardi wants House Ombra eliminated. They hold leverage over every other House through their intelligence network. I want their secrets acquired and their network absorbed. You will be my operative. You will meet me on a scheduled basis. You will address me as Master Accardi only."
He paused for the briefest second, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation before continuing.
"You are serving three contracts. That means divided focus. I am reducing the fee to the baseline of five hundred million. Is that fair?"
Aren listened to every of his word with rapt attention. For the first time since she had woken up in this world, a quiet joy bloomed in her chest.
Unlike the Sartori client, who spoke in confusing riddles of "intimacy" and "memories," this client spoke a language she understood perfectly: mission structures, clear objectives, and a strict chain of command.
Without hesitation, Aren replied with the standard affirmative she had used for a hundred briefings before:
"Okie!"
Then, remembering his requirement, she snapped her spine even straighter:
"Master Accardi!"
She gave him a wide, attentive smile.
Isidore, for his part, flinched on the spot.
"?????????????"
It was a microscopic movement, but his glasses dropped a millimeter lower on the bridge of his nose. Aren didn’t notice.
’Okie?’ his mind recoiled.
No one said "okie" in the Accardi District.
He found the word deeply... unprofessional. And yet, coming from her — with that terrifyingly sincere smile — it felt like a bizarrely solid guarantee of mission success.
He adjusted his glasses with a smooth motion as if no changes had ever taken place, then cleared his throat.
"I’m not signing the contract today," he continued, voice slightly tighter than before. "I don’t tolerate risk. There will be a test of your suitability first. A field evaluation."
Aren’s eyes brightened. "When?"
"Not immediately," he said, regaining his rhythm. "I will contact you via a private device when the timing is optimal. Only then will we finalize the paperwork."
He slid a small communication device across the glass desk. It was sleek, black, and glowed with a faint blue encryption light.
"For security. Use no other line to reach me."
Aren stood with an energetic little hop.
"Okie!"
"!!!"
Isidore flinched again.
Harder this time.
He was starting to actively resent the word, yet he couldn’t find a logical reason to forbid it.
Instead, he gathered his legendary composure and gestured for her to approach the desk.
"Come."
Aren wasted no time.
She moved to the desk with a brisk stride. Once she was near, he slid a single sheet of paper across the glass and placed a fountain pen beside it.
"Write your name."
Aren clasped both hands behind her back, bending over slightly with curious eyes.
"But... Master Accardi, you already know my name."
"Just write," he said flatly. "Contract protocol."
Aren said nothing more. She picked up the pen with neat, precise movements and wrote:
Ariana Lombardi.
Isidore glanced at the writing, then back at Aren. His gaze lingered on her beaming face a second too long.
"I will contact you," he said flatly. "You can leave."
Aren straightened and bowed deeply, the way she would bow to a commanding officer.
"Thank you for the opportunity, Master Accardi."
She picked up the communication device and headed for the door.
Biscuit rose without being called, his tail wagging as if he couldn’t wait to be away from the stale air of the skyscraper.
The moment the door closed, Isidore picked up the note.
The handwriting was sharp, slanted, and incredibly disciplined — the script of a person who knew how to follow a line and hold a steady hand under pressure.
It was utterly different from the looping, messy, drug-shaken scrawl found in Ariana’s old academic files.
Isaac re-entered a moment later, finding his brother staring at the paper in silence.
"Well?" Isaac asked. "Did she cry? Did she ask for an advance to buy more powder?"
"Neither."
Isidore folded the note, then tucked the note away into the top drawer of his desk.
"Have you ever spoken to the Lombardi heiress before?" he asked.
Isaac let out a short laugh.
"Once. At the New Year’s gala. She was loud, smelled like expensive gin, and tried to touch my watch to see if the diamonds were real. Why?"
Isidore’s gaze turned toward the main doors where Aren had just left.
Slowly, he took off his glasses.
"Because that girl is dead. And I’m starting to think whatever’s sitting in her place is something far more expensive."
