Martin leisurely puffed on his cigar.
Cigars are not meant to be inhaled; they’re mostly swirled in the mouth and then exhaled, allowing you to savor their aroma.
Martin’s taste buds, when needed, could be much sharper than those of an average person. Right now, he detected a faint scent of milk from the cigar.
If the so-called high-end cigars are said to be rolled with the virgin "bear" parts or thighs, just a marketing gimmick from the manufacturers, then Mutassim’s cigars were obviously rolled from a woman’s "bear" parts.
But it wasn’t from a virgin—it was more likely from a lactating woman!
What a perverse taste!
Martin sighed internally and took another deep drag.
You have to admit, it did have a unique flavor.
Mutassim lit his own cigar, took a puff, and leaned back, hiding his features behind the smoke. He asked:
"So, you came to see me, what’s the matter?"
"What’s the matter?" Martin looked surprised. "By age, you shouldn’t be forgetful yet, how can you already forget what you’ve done?"
Mutassim’s gaze grew cold. "Yes, I’ve done some things, but you also killed my men. So, what do you want from me?"
Martin chuckled. This guy really was full of himself. He thought that sending someone to provoke me and causing me harm could be swept under the rug just because those provocations were eliminated?
"Mutassim, some things can’t be done. If you do them, you’ll have to pay the price!"
"Oh, the price, haha, interesting!" Mutassim blew out a puff of smoke, leaned slightly forward, and stared at Martin. "So what price do you think I should pay?"
"You want to know? Let me tell you."
Martin extinguished his cigar, stood up, and walked toward Mutassim’s position.
Mutassim’s face shifted slightly. He had done some research on Martin and knew this guy was quite skilled.
Good thing I was prepared.
Mutassim clapped his hands a few times. A secret door opened on the right side of the study, and two burly men, holding guns, stepped out and aimed them at Martin.
They then stood on either side of Martin.
Martin stopped in his tracks.
Mutassim laughed smugly. "Alright, now you tell me, what price?"
Martin glanced at the two gunmen pointing their weapons at him, then turned his gaze back to Mutassim, showing no sign of panic. "A man like you must have a lot of overseas anonymous accounts, right?"
"Yes, I have fourteen anonymous overseas accounts, so what? Are you asking me to pay? Hahahaha!"
It seemed as though Mutassim had heard a joke that was too much to bear, and he pointed at Martin, laughing uncontrollably.
Unexpectedly, Martin also laughed heartily. "You know, within seven steps, I’m faster than a bullet!"
Before he finished speaking, his hand shot out like lightning.
It was unclear where Martin struck, but the two gunmen collapsed to the ground instantly, unconscious.
Mutassim’s laughter died in his throat, as if a duck’s quacking was suddenly choked.
He looked up and saw Martin walking toward him with big strides.
In a panic, Mutassim hurriedly opened a drawer, wanting to grab a gun, but it was already too late.
Martin was already at the desk, grabbing Mutassim’s collar and yanking him out of his chair.
Then, Martin revealed a "clownish" smile—crazy, strange, and cold.
Mutassim’s heart raced.
He understood now—this guy in front of him looked like an actor, a superstar, a writer, a musician, a businessman on the surface, but in reality, he was a psychopath!
No wonder, no wonder he liked to personally handle situations and kill people when in danger—he’d done it with bank robbers, with murderers, and now, with him...
The fear on Mutassim’s face caused Martin to pause for a moment. Am I really that scary?
Then Martin quickly realized and apologized with a slight smile: "Sorry, I forgot this isn’t a movie."
As he spoke, his smile shifted into a normal, kind, and warm expression.
However, this made Mutassim even more afraid!
A normal person could switch between two such different faces so effortlessly?
Only a madman, a psychopath, would do that!
Mutassim’s fear deepened.
Then he saw Martin’s deep blue eyes, which seemed to have some magnetic pull, and his mind immediately became consumed.
Minutes passed, and the two bodyguards on the floor regained consciousness and immediately grabbed their guns, looking around confusedly.
Then they saw Martin standing across the desk from their master, seemingly talking about something.
The two bodyguards sighed in relief.
Thankfully, Martin didn’t make any harmful moves toward Mutassim.
They raised their guns and aimed them at Martin.
At this moment, Mutassim spoke, "What are you doing? Martin is my distinguished guest. Put your guns down and leave."
The two bodyguards were stunned.
"I said, get out!" Mutassim yelled.
The two bodyguards looked at the situation in the room carefully and realized their master didn’t seem to be in any danger.
"Still not leaving?" Seeing the guards hesitating, Mutassim became even angrier.
"Yes, sir!" The two bodyguards hurriedly retreated.
As they left the study, they heard Mutassim apologizing to Martin: "Sorry, Martin, my servants don’t understand..."
Once outside the study, the two bodyguards didn’t dare to wander far. They stood guard near the door.
About fifteen minutes later, the study door opened, and Mutassim and Martin walked out, one after the other.
Mutassim’s attitude was extremely warm, smiling widely, calling Martin "my brother," and even allowing Martin to place a hand on his shoulder.
He had never been so intimate even with his real brothers.
"My brother, let me walk you out."
"Have you two finished talking? Martin, you’re leaving already? Can’t you stay a bit longer?" Vanessa Hessler jogged over, looking reluctant.
Strangely enough, Mutassim didn’t seem jealous or angry this time.
In fact, he even took the initiative to have Vanessa Hessler accompany him to see Martin off and allowed her to hug him.
After watching Martin’s car drive off, Mutassim slightly shook his head.
Something felt odd, as if he had forgotten something.
He returned to the study, ordered everyone out, and opened the safe.
The gold was still there.
Some important documents were still there.
Thirteen USB drives containing anonymous account passwords were still there.
He tapped his head and dismissed the feeling of unease, then recalled the deal he had made with his "brother" about collaborating on a mining project in Guinea, his face lighting up with a smile.