CHAPTER 7 – The Sunday Call
The late-morning sunlight poured gently into Michael Visalla's room, filtered through the tall velvet drapes that were drawn halfway open. The scent of polished mahogany lingered in the air, a faint reminder of the butler's early-morning dusting. Michael stood before his antique wardrobe, its brass handles gleaming faintly, his shirtless reflection staring back at him from the tall, bevel-edged mirror to the side.
His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial. First came the crisp white shirt—Egyptian cotton, ironed to perfection. He slid his arms through the sleeves with the ease of habit, the fabric cool against his skin. The top button was left open at first; he preferred to fasten it last, like the final stroke of a painting.
On the valet stand nearby, a navy-blue suit lay waiting. Michael lifted the jacket, letting the fabric drape naturally before slipping into it. The cut hugged his shoulders perfectly—a custom piece from his Milan tailor, as precise as a blade. He reached for his cufflinks, small polished silver squares with a discreet "V" engraving. They clicked into place with a muted finality.
Next came the creams—an indulgence most men in his circle mocked but secretly envied. He opened a small glass jar, scooping a dab of lightweight moisturizer between his fingers, massaging it into his face and neck in slow circles. The scent was faintly herbal, disappearing almost instantly, leaving behind only the smooth texture he insisted on maintaining.
He reached for the cologne last. A single spray on the neck, one on the wrists, and a final one on the inside of his jacket before shrugging it fully into place. The fragrance was complex—notes of bergamot, cedar, and a faint trace of leather. The kind of scent that announced presence without begging for attention.
Just as Michael picked up his watch from the table—a silver Patek Philippe with a deep blue face—there was a soft knock at the door.
"Enter," Michael said without looking up.
The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with curly hair, slightly thinning at the crown, dressed in a modest gray suit and carrying a worn leather satchel. His glasses gave him a permanent air of bookish caution.
"Good morning, sir," the man said, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Michael looked up and arched a brow. "Ah, yes… Nate. Good morning. Quite an unexpected visit."
Nate stepped inside with the kind of careful politeness of someone who was both loyal and perpetually on edge in the Visalla household. They began walking down the wide marble-floored corridor together.
Michael glanced sideways at him. "Is this the first time you've visited me on a Sunday?"
"Yes, sir. I… ah… apologize if I've caused any inconvenience," Nate said, clearing his throat.
Michael shook his head lightly. "No. Had breakfast?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then state your purpose," Michael said, his voice measured but expectant.
Nate slowed slightly, opened his satchel, and withdrew a neat stack of papers clipped together. His tone lowered as they walked.
"Sir, we… have a problem."
Michael's gaze sharpened. "Problem?"
"Yes, sir. Just this morning the ANG Corporation called us. They've decided not to invest in the new amusement park."
Michael stopped mid-step. "What? Why did they pull out at the last minute?" His voice carried more weight now, though it never rose.
Nate's face was earnest. "Sir, even I was shocked. After how interested they were… it doesn't make sense. They gave no explanation, just a polite withdrawal notice."
Michael exhaled slowly through his nose, continuing down the hallway. "Man… as the board meeting gets closer, we're having more issues, day by day."
"Yes, sir. And we've already placed the bid for the land for the park," Nate reminded him gently. "We need to do something about this."
They turned a corner, the guest room door now in sight. Michael slowed again, his gaze locked forward.
"I have guests right now," he said flatly. "Let me finish my business here, and then I'll pay a personal visit to ANG Corporation."
Nate nodded quickly. "I'll schedule a meeting with them."
Michael smirked faintly without humor. "No. Let me surprise them."
"…Understood, sir," Nate said, stepping back slightly as Michael placed a hand on the guest room door.
When he entered, the atmosphere shifted immediately. Inside sat two men—one tall and distinguished, wearing the sharp suit of a British statesman, the other slightly heavier, his face tight with tension. Michael recognized them instantly: the UK's federal minister and the American ambassador to the UK.
The minister stood first. "Michael, how are you? Sorry to disturb your Sunday."
Michael stepped forward, shaking his hand firmly, then nodding to the ambassador. "Minister. Ambassador."
The ambassador didn't speak, but his eyes… his eyes were daggers, glaring at Michael with open hostility.
Michael tilted his head slightly, smiling without warmth. "Wow… my friend. Lower your gaze. You might kill someone with that look."
The minister shot the ambassador a glance, a subtle signal to ease his posture. He then returned his attention to Michael. "So, Michael… how's business these days?"
Michael leaned back slightly in his chair. "Good. These days, quite good."
"Yes, well," the minister said with a knowing smile, "our government's been passing a lot of bills to help businessmen lately."
Michael chuckled softly. "Yes… a lot of investment was made to form this government. Of course, we have to reap the fruits now."
The two men shared a small laugh. The ambassador remained silent.
Michael leaned forward slightly. "So… what's with the visit today? I doubt you came here to talk business."
The minister's expression grew more serious. "Michael… I think you might have one of my friend's sons with you. He goes to the same school as you and… might have caused some trouble for the Visallas."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice stayed calm. "Hmm. Carry on."
The minister gestured toward the ambassador. "My friend here is the American ambassador to the UK. His son has been missing for a few days. We suspect… he is here."
Michael shook his head slightly. "Doesn't ring any bell. I guess we don't have anyone like that."
The ambassador's self-control snapped. "Return my son immediately," he barked. "You don't want to mess with America."
Michael's gaze hardened instantly, his eyes turning from casual to lethal in a heartbeat. The ambassador froze mid-breath.
The minister quickly intervened. "Relax, my friend. Don't you want your son back?"
Michael's tone was now icily deliberate. "You see, I'm quite busy in my study life and my business life. I don't remember having any boy in my custody."
The minister leaned forward slightly. "Michael… can we talk one on one?"
Michael considered, then nodded. "Sure. Let's go to the other room."
They stepped into a smaller adjoining lounge. The minister's voice dropped. "Michael, listen… we need that boy. His disappearance could create a lot of tension between the UK and America. We need to return him. America just needs an excuse to start a fight with the UK."
Michael crossed his arms. "I don't have anyone."
"Then find him," the minister said flatly.
Michael's brows rose. "You want me to find someone?"
"Yes," the minister said firmly.
Michael tilted his head in thought. "Well… I can do that. But what do I get in return?"
"What do you want?" the minister asked.
Michael's smirk was slow and calculating. "I don't know… yet."
The minister thought for a moment. "How about… a favor?"
Michael's brow arched. "A favor?"
"Yes. Any favor. Anytime. Whatever you ask."
Michael's voice was almost amused. "Anything?"
"Yes. Anything. I promise."
They returned to the guest room. Michael faced the ambassador with a cool expression. "We'll try our best to find your son."
"You have twenty-four hours," the minister added.
Michael smiled faintly. "Don't worry. Our men are quite skilled. We'll find him."
The ambassador's eyes were still full of murder. "You'd better."
The minister placed a hand on the ambassador's arm. "Let's go. Your son will come back soon."
The two left, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed.
"Dante," he said when the line picked up, "time to return the boy. Meet me at the dukaan."
Dante's voice came through without hesitation. "Sure. I'll head there now."
Michael ended the call, slipping the phone back into his jacket. The room was silent again… but the storm had just begun.
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