Chapter 214: "It Looks Sad"

For the next two full seconds, not even the referee moved.

He looked so thoroughly stunned that he neglected the most basic requirement of his job: checking whether the unconscious fighter was still alive, much less declaring the match over.

Aren, being the person closest to Nico’s motionless body, eventually took it upon herself to compensate for his lapse. She walked over, knelt beside Nico, and poked him lightly on the cheek.

She poked it once.

No response.

She leaned closer and checked his breathing.

Warm air brushed unpleasantly across her face.

Aren immediately recoiled.

’Still alive.’

Her nose wrinkled.

’His breath still smells bad.’

Apparently, unconsciousness had done nothing to improve the problem she’d identified during the press conference. Satisfied that Nico wasn’t going to die anytime soon, she rose to her feet, smoothed her feathered skirt, and turned toward the audience.

What greeted her was an entire arena staring back.

Hundreds of people.

Utterly silent.

No one seemed to blink.

Aren blinked instead.

For the first time since entering the arena, a faint stiffness crept into her posture.

’Wait.’

She glanced briefly at Nico, then back at the crowd.

’Was that a little too early?’

She’d simply assumed that ending the fight quickly would be preferable for everyone involved. Judging by the expressions surrounding her, however, the audience apparently disagreed.

Unsure what proper etiquette required in such a situation, Aren folded her hands neatly in front of herself and bowed toward the spectators.

"I’m very sorry if the fight ended earlier than expected," she said sincerely. "I did personally advise Mister Baldi about the weakness in his guard when we met previously. Unfortunately, it seems he wasn’t able to correct it within such a short period of time."

For another heartbeat, nobody responded.

The next...

The entire arena lost its mind. ℴℴ𝘮

"BALDI! GET THE FUCK UP!"

"YOU’RE NOT UNCONSCIOUS! STOP FUCKING AROUND!"

"I PUT EIGHT HUNDRED GRAND ON YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"CHECK HIS ACCOUNTS! HE’S FUCKING BOUGHT!"

"THROW WATER ON HIM!"

"FUCK WATER — GET A DEFIBRILLATOR!"

"THAT’S FOR HEARTS, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"

The abuse multiplied by the second, accompanied by increasingly unhinged behavior throughout the crowd. Men who had been roaring Nico’s name less than a minute earlier were now halfway out of their seats, screaming obscenities through the barriers.

One furious spectator looked ready to climb over the railing until security dragged him back.

Others jabbed furious fingers toward Nico’s unconscious body, as though that might somehow compel the man to regain consciousness.

Unfortunately, no matter how loudly they screamed, how viciously they insulted him, or how much money they’d just lost, Nico Baldi wasn’t getting back up anytime soon.

He remained sprawled across the floor, magnificently indifferent to the collective financial catastrophe unfolding around him.

Meanwhile, once Aren realized nobody was paying attention to her anymore, an unexpected wave of relief washed through her.

’Luckily, they didn’t ask me to perform CPR on Mister Baldi.’

Her gaze wandered toward Jeremiah instead. He was still standing exactly where he’d stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Still staring at her.

Aren had seen many expressions on Jeremiah’s face since meeting him — amusement, mischief, delight, smugness, theatrical outrage. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him simply shocked.

"Don’t worry, Mister Castellano," Aren called reassuringly. "Mister Baldi is still breathing. He’ll probably regain consciousness within half an hour or so."

She glanced down at Nico’s enormous body, considering the logistics.

"Although... since he’s quite large, you may want to send several additional medics. And perhaps a bigger stretcher."

Jeremiah continued staring at her.

He’d heard every word.

Unfortunately, none of them addressed his actual emergency.

’...Am I seriously about to pay Jordan Marchetti fifty million dollars?’

Every now and then, Jeremiah had entertained the idle thought that he would gladly pay a hundred thousand dollars — simply for the pleasure of seeing Nico Baldi carried out on a stretcher.

At no point had he anticipated that the stretcher would effectively cost him fifty fucking million.

Refusing to accept such a cruel interpretation of reality without first checking the numbers himself, Jeremiah shot a hand up to his earpiece.

"Marco, I need a number on tonight’s total. Casino revenue, food, alcohol, the undercard, tonight’s main-event book — particularly every cent all these idiots just dumped on Nico Baldi."

He paused.

Then, with unusual seriousness, he added, "And before you answer, please don’t tell me we’ve somehow managed to lose money tonight."

Inside the management room, Marco sat surrounded by glowing monitors, his gaze fixed on the financial dashboard. Wagers were rapidly settling across the screen, the financial summary updating alongside them.

He’d been staring at the numbers ever since the system began calculating the final payouts.

He still wasn’t entirely convinced they were real.

"Young Boss," Marco finally replied, very carefully, "are you fucking kidding me?"

Jeremiah’s brows rose.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Have you seriously not checked the live financial dashboard even once tonight?"

Jeremiah rolled his eyes.

"I’ve been busy being charming."

Marco dragged a hand down his face, then looked at the screen again, as though needing to confirm that the figure hadn’t somehow changed in the last few seconds.

"Fine. You want the number?" He tapped his earpiece. "We’re clearing just under two hundred million tonight."

Jeremiah went still.

"What?"

"Almost two hundred million," Marco repeated patiently.

Jeremiah pressed a finger harder against his earpiece.

"Two hundred million? Are you sure you didn’t hallucinate an extra zero?"

"Exactly what I said!" Marco shouted back. "Nearly two hundred fucking million! Do you understand how insane that is? Even on one of our special fight nights, we don’t even make ten million. Those maniacs kept dumping money on Baldi because they thought he was free money!"

Jeremiah blinked.

Marco wasn’t finished.

"And before you ask — yes, that’s after settling the winning bets on Ariana Lombardi. Your fifty-million-dollar Marchetti problem is already accounted for. So are the other crazy fuckers who bet on her."

Jeremiah’s mouth opened slightly.

For several long seconds, he simply stood there, attempting to reconcile reality with itself.

Nearly two hundred million.

In one night.

After payouts.

Slowly — very slowly — his gaze drifted back toward the woman still inside the cage.

She stood beneath the harsh lights in white satin and feathers, looking curiously back at him while Nico Baldi remained unconscious at her feet.

Jeremiah stared at her now, not like a club owner looking at one of his fighters, but like a man confronted with some inexplicable phenomenon he’d somehow managed to acquire under contract — all without fully understanding what, exactly, he’d paid for.

’What the fuck did I purchase?’

The thought remained suspended in Jeremiah’s mind for only a few stunned seconds. Then, a wicked smile spread across his face, and he climbed the steps again with renewed purpose.

Aren watched him reenter the cage, mildly puzzled by the dramatic transformation in his mood.

Before she could ask what had happened, Jeremiah strode straight toward her, took her hand, and immediately began leading her toward the exit.

Aren looked down at their joined hands, then back at him.

"Erm, Mister Castellano...?"

"My darling Swan Queen," Jeremiah said brightly, "I believe it’s time we discussed considerably more important matters."

"What matters?"

"Dessert."

Aren’s face went blank.

"...Dessert?"

Jeremiah’s smile became dazzling.

"Surely you haven’t forgotten? You specifically requested desserts after your fight. Everything has already been prepared for you. An entire dessert area, waiting for you and you alone."

Aren’s eyes brightened instantly.

"Oh, right! The desserts from Primavera. That’s wonderful!"

Then she remembered something, and concern immediately returned to her face.

"But I need to find Jordan and Biscuit first! I already told Biscuit about the desserts. He’ll be sad if I eat them without him."

Jeremiah didn’t miss a beat.

"Oh, absolutely not! We cannot have Biscuit devastated on your debut night! But the VIP booths are several levels up, aren’t they? There’s no need to trouble yourself by going all the way there. I’ll have an attendant fetch them for us."

Aren hesitated.

The prospect of walking from the arena to the promised dessert room alone with Jeremiah suddenly seemed somewhat concerning. Then again, there was nothing objectively unreasonable about his suggestion.

"All right, then," she nodded. "I suppose we can go there first."

Jeremiah couldn’t have looked more pleased.

"Excellent."

He flashed her an utterly charming smile and escorted her from the cage.

─ •?• ─ ? ─ •?• ─

The corridor leading away from the arena was almost unnaturally quiet.

Every guest that night was still inside the Pit, roaring in disbelief over the result of the main event, while nearly every available member of staff had been dispatched to contain the chaos left in its wake.

Naturally, Aren found the silence perfectly pleasant.

Naturally, Jeremiah regarded it as the perfect opportunity to talk without interruption.

"You see, Ariana darling," he began, strolling beside her with his usual effortless elegance, "eventually, my marketing department will want photographs for promotional purposes. Nothing vulgar, mind you. We’ve already established that your aesthetic is tragically resistant to vulgarity. It will be something tasteful, of course. Ethereal, even. Perhaps white feathers falling around you while some enormous gentleman lies unconscious at your feet."

Beside him, Aren walked in silence, her attention drifting instead toward the beautiful paintings lining the corridor walls. She barely acknowledged his suggestions beyond an occasional shake of her head or a polite, concise reply.

"No."

Jeremiah continued, entirely undeterred.

"No photoshoots? Then how about promotional materials? We should absolutely put you on the main entrance display upstairs. The Swan Queen — Beauty, Grace, Catastrophic Brain Trauma. No? Too medically specific?"

"No..."

"Mm. You’re right. Terrible slogan. Perhaps Five Seconds to Financial Ruin. That has broader appeal."

"...No."

"The Swan Who Slaughtered the Bookmakers?"

"No."

Jeremiah sighed wistfully.

"Baby girl, I’m telling you, this is going to become a massive problem when we date. You’re remarkably difficult to work with. How are we supposed to even pick a restaurant for dinner?"

By then, Aren had made the wise decision to stop participating in the one-sided conversation altogether. Preserving what remained of her sanity seemed considerably more important.

"Well, if slogans don’t work," Jeremiah continued anyway, "then let’s at least consider merchandise. Swan Queen robes, commemorative gloves, perhaps a little plush version of you. Although we’d need to make it look sufficiently judgmental. Your expression is essential to the brand. Eventually, we could even have Biscuit merchandise. That might actually outsell yours—"

Jeremiah glanced to his side.

There was no one there.

He stopped.

"...Ariana?"

For perhaps the first time that evening, he found himself talking to empty air.

Turning around, he found Aren several yards behind him.

She had stopped beside the enormous floral arrangement she’d noticed earlier that evening, her head tilted slightly as she stared at the painting partially concealed behind the vase.

Jeremiah went perfectly still.

His eyes widened — not dramatically, not enough for most people to notice, but enough to reveal that her choice of painting had caught him entirely by surprise.

Then, just as quickly, the expression vanished. By the time he walked back toward her, his usual smile had already returned.

"My, my." His tone was light. "I didn’t realize you were interested in art."

He stopped beside her and followed her gaze toward the canvas.

"Although... you really do have peculiar taste, sweetheart. Of all the magnificent pieces in this hall, you’ve somehow become fascinated by the one we’ve practically hidden behind a vase."

Aren didn’t respond to any of it. She continued staring at the painting.

"May I ask who painted this?"

Jeremiah’s smile remained effortless.

"An exceptionally private abstract artist, of course. Quite renowned, though tragically devoted to anonymity."

Aren glanced at him.

"Did they ever say what this painting is supposed to be?"

"Oh, surely you can see it."

Jeremiah gestured grandly toward the chaotic red marks.

"Observe the strokes, my dear. That’s raw sensuality. The red represents desire — the primal feminine hunger suppressed beneath the suffocating expectations of civilized society. White, naturally, represents purity, which the red violently penetrates, creating a daring commentary on repression, sexuality, and the fundamental hypocrisy of—"

"It looks sad."

Jeremiah stopped.

Silence stretched between them.

"...Excuse me?"

Aren didn’t look away from the painting.

"It looks sad."

Jeremiah stared at her.

For the smallest fraction of a second, his smile trembled.

"...Sad?"

The tiny fracture in his composure lasted only a moment longer. A soft laugh escaped him, as though the idea were charmingly absurd.

"My dear Ariana, how does a collection of red lines make you think of sadness? Personally, I see overwhelming joy. If anything, it looks like particularly enthusiastic lovemaking."

Aren finally turned toward him, her brow creasing.

"This looks like lovemaking to you?"

Jeremiah smiled.

"If you look at it long enough."

Aren looked back at the canvas, studying it for a moment.

"To me, it looks like whoever painted it was in a lot of pain."

Jeremiah’s smile cracked.

Before he could repair it, Aren lifted one hand and pointed toward the painting.

"Look here."

Her finger hovered near one cluster of red marks without touching the surface.

"These strokes don’t follow the movements I’d expect from someone trying to paint something. The movement is wrong. They look more like stabbing."

She paused, briefly reconsidering how strange that sounded now that she’d said it aloud. Yet the longer she studied the canvas, the more certain she became.

"Actually... if I imagine the brush as something other than a brush, the movements make more sense. These shorter marks look as though the painter held it like a knife and repeatedly stabbed forward."

Her finger shifted toward several longer crimson streaks.

"And these are different. The movement comes downward and across. More like slashing with a longer blade. It’s almost as though the painter wanted to kill something — or someone — and the canvas happened to be what they could kill instead."

When Aren finished, silence filled the corridor.

Jeremiah said nothing the entire time. He simply followed the movement of her finger as it traveled from one cluster of crimson to another, his attention fixed on every mark she indicated.

There was no smile on his face.

The absence of it was so unusual that Aren eventually found herself studying him instead of the painting.

Without the theatrical amusement constantly animating his features, he looked strangely unfamiliar.

Like an entirely different person.

Calmer.

Quieter.

More...

Real.

"Turns out you know considerably more about art than you let on."

Aren blinked.

Something about his voice felt wrong.

There was no sweetness in it. No flirtation. No exaggerated charm.

Only a quietness she’d never heard from him before.

"I don’t know much about art," she admitted honestly. "I was only observing."

"Were you?"

"Yes." Aren hesitated. "Although my observations also suggest that all the paintings here were made by one person rather than several."

Something flickered through Jeremiah’s eyes.

"Really?"

He turned slightly toward her.

"And what gave you that impression?"

"The colors," Aren replied with a small shrug. "The brushwork isn’t the same. Neither is the style. Some of the paintings don’t even seem to use the same techniques. But there’s something consistent about the colors."

She walked toward the nearest canvas and pointed to one of its shadowed sections.

"Most of this painting uses very bright, warm colors, but the shadows contain a cold blue-purple mixture. The same thing happens in the others. Different subjects, different techniques, but similar decisions underneath them."

Her brows drew together as she searched for a better explanation.

"It’s difficult to describe. Or perhaps..." She frowned slightly. "Maybe I’m just imagining it."

"No."

Aren looked at him.

A small smile had returned to Jeremiah’s face.

Not his usual grin.

Something quieter.

"You’re not imagining it."

Aren faltered for the briefest second. Before she could ask what he meant, Jeremiah stepped closer, closing the distance between them until only she could hear his next words.

"Miss Lombardi," he said, his voice unusually measured. "I have an offer to make. Would you please listen to what I have to say for just one moment?"

Now, Aren stared at him.

Miss Lombardi.

Not Ariana.

Not darling.

Not sweetheart.

Not baby girl.

He’d even said "please" without making it sound like a joke.

’What’s with the sudden change?’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What sort of offer?"

Jeremiah smiled.

"Would you please help me become Don?"

Aren frowned.

"What do you mean?"

For once, Jeremiah seemed genuinely troubled by the difficulty of explaining himself.

"Ah... I knew it would sound absolutely ridiculous once I said it aloud."

He exhaled softly.

"Frankly, I shouldn’t have considered involving anyone at all. I intended to handle the matter myself. But what can I do? Circumstances change, opportunities appear, and sometimes one encounters a person unexpectedly suited to solving a very inconvenient problem."

Aren’s suspicion only deepened.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Jeremiah lowered his gaze to the floor.

For several seconds, he seemed genuinely thoughtful. Then something occurred to him.

"Ah!"

He looked up.

"How about this?"

A warm, sincere smile spread across his face.

"Miss Lombardi, would you help me become Don so that I can finally kill both of my parents?"