My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 95: The deal behind the grenade ( Lucrezia’s POV )

Chapter 95: The deal behind the grenade ( Lucrezia’s POV )

"I got to say, Lucrezia, this is the best plan you could have ever had!"

"But, of course, darling. I trust you did your part as well."

"The rut inducer worked wonders. He was out of it."

"Good. Now, dear Caleb, shall we discuss your payment?"

"Thank you, ma’am, for everything. After what Sanchez did at the auction, my family suffered a lot. If it weren’t for you, we would have gone bankrupt."

I already knew all this theatre from both of them, all this over-performed gratitude and fake tears were nothing but an act.

Yet the world kept spinning around my finger just like I wanted.

Although I did not expect the Prime Minister’s brat to be such a special specimen, my plan went smoothly.

I had Caleb Plutus, the addict whose reputation Emiliano destroyed at the auction party, plant a grenade in the middle of that punk’s apartment.

Nobody could see it coming. Not even him.

Because nobody would dare to have Sanchez as their enemy. Nobody in their right mind.

Caleb was thrown out, left for dead as soon as Emiliano laid his eyes on him.

I found him by the fountain, curled up like laundry someone had forgotten to take inside. He was loud. It was not the dignified sobbing of someone wronged, no. It was the desperate kind, like a kid who had dropped his ice cream.

Truly a pathetic act from such a powerful heir, but I blame that on Richard- his father.

Kids are meant to be controlled by their parents. After all, the brats are nothing but a display of who gave them life.

Despite Killian having his flaws, he wore himself with nothing but arrogance and taste. He would drown himself in an abundance of different fonts- omegas, clothes, parties- but he would never lose his clarity.

After all, his bad behavior could push him out of my grace. So he would end up just as he began his life- in the slums of the city, starved and forgotten.

Only this time, alone. No loving mother who would lie to no one in particular that better days are coming. No little sister to motivate him to push through the disgusting garbage for a piece of bread or an inkling of hope.

Just his own thoughts, his addiction to status and wealth killing him softly-

Rotting him from the inside out until he can’t stand to live in his skin anymore.

But that was, of course, the type of education I provide for my heirs. Richard was quite the opposite.

And look where his indulging and forgiveness got him to—

Claus.

He could barely keep still, jerking and twitching like he was trying to shake himself out of his own skin. He reeked. Sour sweat, chemicals, something rotten underneath.

The statues around us stared.

They always did, that was the whole aesthetic of that garden.

People loved it—art that watched you back.

I loved it too, usually.

It felt exclusive. Cultured.

A reflection of the outside world. Staring. Judging. Enving.

That day it felt cheapened. His wailing ruined everything. His noise bounced off the marble faces like bad music in an expensive restaurant.

His shirt was open halfway down, clinging to his ribs.

I could count them.

Ribs.

He used to have some bulk last time I saw him.

Not much, but enough to look alive.

Now he was just bones in borrowed skin. His hair—oh God, the hair—slick with grease, stuck to his forehead in little damp strings.

He was a wreck, but who could blame him?

Emiliano destroyed everything in a matter of seconds: his father’s company, his social status, any possible alliance with the other rich pigs from the inside.

All because he started a rumor and tracked all his success and accomplishments back to him.

And if you destroy the source of the success, then what do you have to provide anymore?

"Caleb."

"Madam Akna?"

I smiled. Well, as much as I could.

This disgusting failure didn’t deserve to provoke any type of facial expression, let alone a wrinkle.

But he was desperate enough to do what nobody else in this party-

In the whole aristocracy that we live in today.

To put himself against Emiliano Sanchez.

I stepped closer.

My heels crunched on the gravel.

He didn’t notice.

He was too busy folding in on himself, hugging his knees like they might hold him together.

The crying got louder, cracking at the edges, that sound people made when they had lost even the pretense of dignity.

He thought this was a tragedy.

He thought this was suffering.

No, darling.

This is the start of your usefulness.

"Caleb, you ruined your father."

My words came out harsh. As intended.

This idiot needs to comprehend his situation. His limit and to see me for what I am.

His salvation.

I wanted to tell him to die quietly, out of sight, so the rest of us could enjoy the view.

But I didn’t speak.

My lips stayed perfect, sealed in a silence that had cost more than his entire outfit.

This chance needs to be carefully handled.

"I could save you."

His eyes rose in surprise. I was aware that this would be easy, but I didn’t expect Caleb to be this gullible.

No process of thought went through his brain.

And yet, I am sure he fried it himself with the drugs invented by the exact man that ruined him.

"Please, madam Akna, I’ll do anything!"

"Anything?"

"Anything!"

"Good. I’ll send you an address in a few weeks. Send your best mercenaries there. A grenade as well."

"Oh."

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then he nodded quietly.

"Aren’t you going to ask?"

"No. I’ll do as you said."

"Good boy."

I opened my purse.

The clasp clicked, neat and sharp, louder than his crying for a second.

Inside, everything was in order.

Wallet, lipstick, keys, the handkerchief folded into a perfect square.

White with a thin gold edge.

I took it with two fingers and shook it once, slowly, so it unfolded without touching my glove.

The air smelled of him now—sour, damp, like rotting fruit.

I couldn’t let that touch me.

I wrapped the cloth around my right hand.

Tighter at the fingers, looser at the wrist.

The fabric dulled the shine of the leather but kept it clean.

That mattered.

The glove cost more than his entire life.

I bent my arm and lowered my hand.

Slowly, so the cloth didn’t slip.

The edge brushed his hair first. Oily strands clung to the gold trim.

I pressed anyway.

The crown of his head was damp and warm, the warmth of fever, the warmth of something unwashed.

My fingers moved once, twice, no more than an inch each time.

A pat.

Another.

Not soft. Not hard. Just enough to make contact.

His shoulders jerked at the touch. His breath cut into a sharp noise, then broke into another sob. His head stayed down, his knees tight against his chest.

You need to make contact with animals to ensure loyalty.

No matter how disgusting and revolting it had to be.

I slid my hand back, slow, lifting the cloth with it.

A few strands of hair clung to the fabric.

Black against white.

I pinched them away and let them fall to the gravel. They curled when they landed.

The handkerchief was wrinkled now, marked with a faint sweat patch where his head had pressed.

I kept it between two fingers, away from my body, the way one holds something used and filthy.

"This is how our little deal is going to go, my dear Caleb. I’ll start a rumor about you being engaged to my daughter, Clara."

His eyes shifted and met mine with so much happiness, it made me hurl inside.

"Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, darling. I wouldn’t let my daughter into your sleezy, addict hands even if you were the last alpha in the world. But the rumor and my avoidance of denunciation would be enough for the pigs inside to trust you with their money again."

"Madam Akna—"

"Quiet. I’m not done. You will ensure the destruction of Emiliano Sanchez in return. The first step is the grenade."

"But can he really be destroyed?"

"Didn’t you notice, darling? He displayed his weak spot tonight, in front of everyone. His wife. Luther Wilkers."

His eyes were red and raw, the skin swollen and streaked with salt.

But there was something in them now—stiff, stubborn, a pathetic imitation of resolve.

Determination.

Revenge.

"So we kill Luther?"

"Don’t be ridiculous! I still have use of him. We’re just gonna make them divorce. That will be the true end of Emiliano."

"What will happen to Luther after?"

"If my darling nephew wants him, I’ll give him to."

He bit his dry lips as if he were behind a process of building a thought.

He whispered unsure after a while.

"May I- May I have him once before you gift him?"

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Men.

Their fragile and idiotic ego.

Thirst for revenge of conquering a body.

Utterly pathetic.

"Whatever happens to the Prime Minister’s brat before arriving in my nephew’s arms is none of my business."

"That’s a yes?"

Too many words for him to actually clock in, huh?

"Wear protection. I don’t want any disease spreading."