Mafia Captured

14. His Children

Bob's voice thundered through the air, "You guys are pathetic. Do you know that?" His harsh tone snapped at the three men, who lowered their heads in shame.

Arsalan's jaw clenched, his presence far more intimidating than Bob's outburst. He didn't need to shout. One sharp glance from him had all four men flinching in unison. But Arsalan said nothing, holding back the growing frustration gnawing at him. Instead, without a word, he turned away and strode toward the mansion.

The frown on his face deepened. *How does she afford to live in a place like this?* he thought as he reached the front door and pressed the bell. Moments passed. Nothing. Growing impatient, Arsalan pressed the bell again, this time more insistent.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing an elderly woman with a kind but puzzled expression. From behind her, a shrill voice echoed, accompanied by the clatter of hurried footsteps.

"I've had enough! This time I'm calling the bobbies!" the voice threatened. "I've learned my lesson. Never again—" The words died in her throat as her eyes landed on Arsalan. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

The younger woman, clearly wealthy, let her eyes linger on Arsalan in a way that made him peeved. While he was used to such attention, a quiet part of him—something deep, instinctive—always urged him to steer clear of such interactions. Something in his very nature recoiled from indulgence in such acts. He cleared his throat and adjusted his posture, subtly signaling his disinterest. The woman, however, either missed the message or chose to ignore it, her cheeks flushing red as she gave him an almost comical flutter of her fake lashes.

The elderly woman beside her cleaned her glasses and put them back on, squinting as though trying to match his face with something in her mind. "Are you Sahira's husband?" she asked cautiously.

Before Arsalan could respond, the younger woman, Rachel, cut in, her voice falsely sweet and bubbly. "Of course, he isn't. He's here for me." She turned to the older woman. "Catherine, why don't you go make arrangements for our guest?" She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, batting her lashes again. "So, how can I help you?" Her tone was all pretense.

Arsalan's face remained cold. "I'm here to collect my children."

"Children?" Rachel frowned, confused.

"Yes," Arsalan replied firmly. "I'm Sahira's husband. Can you please tell me where my children are?"

Rachel's face contorted with disbelief, her mouth struggling to form words. "You... her... husband?" she stammered. "But... she said..." She was utterly baffled.

The older woman, Catherine, sighed at Rachel's behavior. "Come inside," she said quietly, her tone kind.

Arsalan nodded, stepping into the mansion without acknowledging Rachel's presence. His patience was wearing thin, but he kept his composure. His hands slipped into his pockets, his expression unreadable as he followed Catherine through the halls. Rachel stood frozen, her mind struggling to process the revelation. After a moment, she spun around and hurried after them.

"Wait!" Rachel's voice called out as she reached a hand toward Arsalan. He stopped and turned slightly, his expression betraying no emotion. He tilted his head, regarding her with a faint, polite smile, though his patience was clearly waning.

"I don't believe this," she blurted, her tone exasperated. "You can't be her husband. She told me her husband was poor! Look at you—there's no way a man in a Savile Row suit is married to that... that *poor* woman." Her words were drenched in bitterness.

People like Catherine takes her enjoyment from belittling other people. She is one of them who's blinded by her wealth and status. People who

Rachel had spent years belittling Sahira, finding pleasure in putting others down, especially those she considered beneath her. The idea that Sahira, whom she saw as weak, could be married to someone like Arsalan—a man who exuded strength and wealth—was unthinkable to her.