Express Delivery: Spiced and Stirred

Chapter 9: The Tuxedo Trap

"I’ve decided. This isn't a suit, Keisha. It’s a sophisticated torture device designed by people who hate breathing."

Zayyan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Villareal penthouse, tugging violently at the silk bowtie that felt like a velvet garrote. The black tuxedo was hand-tailored, Italian, and cost more than his last three motorbikes combined, but to Zayyan, it was just a very expensive straightjacket.

"Stop fidgeting, Zayyan. You’re going to fray the silk," Keisha’s voice drifted from the dressing room, followed by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels.

"Fray the silk? I’m more worried about it fraying my soul! How do rich people do this every night? Is there a secret breathing technique? Do I need to join a cult?"

"It’s called 'posture,' Zayyan. Something you’d know about if you didn't spend your life hunched over a pair of handlebars."

Keisha stepped into the living room, and Zayyan’s complaint died in his throat. She was wearing a floor-length gown the color of midnight, shimmering with subtle obsidian beads that caught the light like oil on water. Her hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and her eyes were framed by a smokiness that made her look less like a CEO and more like a goddess of war.

Zayyan let out a low, long whistle. "Okay. Suddenly, the noose feels worth it."

Keisha paused, a rare flush creeping up her neck. "Is it too much?"

"Too much? Keisha, you look like you’re about to buy the moon and then evict everyone on it just because you like the silence. You look... terrifyingly beautiful."

"And you," Keisha said, stepping closer to him, her fingers reaching up to fix his crooked bowtie. "You actually look like a person who pays taxes. It’s a very convincing disguise."

"Don't get used to it, Boss. Underneath this wool, I’m still 100% street rat and 0% 'logistics visionary.' I feel like I should be carrying a tray of appetizers rather than a billionaire's hand."

"Tonight, you’re the man who won the Ice Queen’s heart," Keisha whispered, her hands lingering on his lapels. Her perfume, that intoxicating sandalwood, was making Zayyan’s tactical brain go fuzzy. "Can you handle that, or do I need to get you a burger box to keep you grounded?"

"I think I can manage," Zayyan grinned, his hand instinctively finding the small of her back. "But if I see a single shrimp toast, I’m not responsible for my actions. Being a fiancé is hungry work."

"Just keep the 'delivery boy' comments to a minimum. We have a narrative to maintain."

"Got it. Talk low, look mysterious, and try not to punch Marcus Thorne in the face. It’s a solid plan."

*

The ballroom of the Grand Excelsior was a cathedral of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the kind of perfume that smelled like old money and new secrets. As the heavy oak doors swung open, the sea of black ties and silk gowns parted, and the room went impossibly quiet.

"Smile, Zayyan," Keisha hissed through her teeth, her hand clamped firmly onto his arm. "The vultures are circling."

"I am smiling! This is my 'I’m happy to be here and totally not looking for the emergency exits' face. Can't you tell?"

"You look like you're planning a heist."

"Well, I am. I’m planning to steal about forty of those mini-quiches as soon as the waiter looks away."

A group of older men in pinstriped suits approached, their eyes darting between Keisha’s diamond ring and Zayyan’s face.

"Keisha! Simply marvelous news," the tallest one said, his voice like dry parchment. "And this must be the young man we’ve heard so much about. Mr. Mahardika, was it?"

"The one and only," Zayyan said, offering a hand that he made sure was just a little too firm. "Nice to meet you. You are...?"

"Arthur Pendergast. Board of Directors."

"Ah, the guy who likes salads! Keisha mentioned you. Or was it the guy who likes budget cuts? You all start to look the same after a while."

Arthur’s smile twitched. Keisha’s grip on Zayyan’s arm tightened enough to leave a bruise.

"Zayyan is a bit of a disruptor," Keisha said smoothly. "He finds traditional corporate structures... charmingly archaic."

"Disruptor. Yes. We saw the 'disruption' in the lobby yesterday," Arthur sneered. "Quite the entrance for a man of 'logistics.'"

"Hey, if you’re not early, you're late," Zayyan shrugged. "And in my business, late is a one-star review. I assume your board meetings are the same? Or do you guys just sit around and wait for the dividends to grow?"

"We focus on stability, Mr. Mahardika," a new voice cut in.

Marcus Thorne stepped out from behind a marble pillar, a glass of champagne in his hand and a smile that looked like it had been sharpened on a whetstone. He looked Zayyan up and down, his gaze lingering on the fit of the tuxedo.

"Stability is so boring, though, don't you think, Marcus?" Zayyan asked, his eyes narrowing. "Personally, I prefer the thrill of a sharp turn. You never know what's waiting around the corner."

"True," Marcus conceded, taking a slow sip. "But sometimes, when you take a turn too fast, you end up hitting a wall. Or a ghost from your past. Tell me, Zayyan, do you find Jakarta’s streets... different than they were three years ago?"

The air between them turned freezing. Zayyan’s playful smirk didn't waver, but his internal sensors went into the red. He knows. He definitely knows.

"The potholes are worse," Zayyan said easily. "But the views are better. Especially from the 52nd floor. You should come up sometime, Marcus. Oh wait, I forgot. You’re not on the guest list anymore."

Marcus’s jaw tightened. "Enjoy the party, Keisha. It’s a shame to see such a beautiful dress wasted on a temporary engagement."

"It’s only temporary if we die, Marcus," Zayyan called out as Thorne walked away. "And I’m very, very hard to kill. I have a 4.9 rating for survival!"

Keisha pulled him toward the dance floor, her face pale. "Zayyan, what was that about three years ago? What does he know?"

"He knows I’m better looking than him in a suit," Zayyan lied, his eyes scanning the mezzanine levels, the service doors, and the darkened corners of the balcony. "Don't let him get under your skin, Boss. That’s what he wants."

"I don't like this. He’s too calm. Marcus is never calm unless he’s already pulled the trigger."

"Then let's give him something else to look at. Dance with me."

"Zayyan, this isn't the time—"

"It’s exactly the time. Look at the cameras, Keisha. They’re waiting for a crack. Give them a romance."

He pulled her into the center of the floor as the orchestra began a slow, sweeping waltz. Zayyan moved with a grace that surprised her—not the practiced steps of a ballroom dancer, but the fluid, rhythmic precision of a fighter who knew exactly where his center of gravity was.

"You’re a good dancer," she whispered, her head resting near his shoulder.

"It’s just lane-splitting without the bike, Keisha. Same principle. Don't hit the other people and keep your eyes on the prize."

"And what’s the prize?"

Zayyan looked down at her, his expression softening into something real, something that made the fake engagement feel like a very distant memory. "Right now? Making sure you don't stop smiling. You have a very nice smile when you aren't trying to fire people."

"I haven't fired anyone in forty-eight hours. That’s a personal record."

"See? I’m a good influence."

As they spun, Zayyan’s eyes never stopped moving. He noted the two security guards by the kitchen who were talking into their sleeves too much. He noted the waiter who wasn't carrying a tray. And then, he saw it.

High above, in the darkened tech booth overlooking the ballroom, a tiny, microscopic flicker of glass.

"Keisha," Zayyan said, his voice dropping into that low, lethal tone.

"Yes?"

"I need you to listen to me very carefully. Don't look up. Don't change your expression. Just keep dancing."

"Zayyan? You’re scaring me."

"In about five seconds, I’m going to trip. I’m going to be a clumsy, uncoordinated delivery boy who can't handle his shiny shoes. When I do, I want you to fall with me. Do you understand?"

"What are you—"

He saw it. A tiny, ruby-red dot appeared on the dark silk of Keisha’s gown, right over her heart. It was dancing, searching for a steady anchor as they moved.

"Now!" Zayyan barked.

He didn't trip. He lunged.

Zayyan’s arm wrapped around Keisha’s waist, and he tackled her with the full force of his weight, spinning his body so he was between her and the tech booth.

THWIP.

The sound was almost silent—the cough of a suppressed high-velocity rifle.

A split second later, the massive ice sculpture of the Villareal logo in the center of the room shattered. A spray of crystalline shards exploded outward, raining down on the horrified guests.

"Get down! Everyone get down!" Zayyan roared, his voice echoing like thunder over the sudden screams of the crowd.

He pressed Keisha flat against the marble floor, his body a human shield. Panic erupted. Champagne glasses shattered, women shrieked, and the elite of Jakarta scrambled for the exits in a chaotic swarm of silk and terror.

"Zayyan!" Keisha gasped, her hands clutching his tuxedo jacket. "Are you hit? Did they get you?"

"I’m fine," Zayyan hissed, his eyes locked on the tech booth. He saw a shadow move, the barrel of a rifle retreating into the darkness. "But the ice sculpture isn't. That was a five-thousand-dollar swan, Keisha. We’re definitely giving this gala a one-star review."

"We have to get out of here!"

"Not yet. The exits are a bottleneck. That’s where they’ll be waiting." Zayyan stood up, pulling Keisha with him in one smooth motion. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a heavy, matte-black handgun that had been hidden beneath the Italian wool.

Keisha stared at the weapon. "You brought a gun to a charity gala?"

"It’s a 'Special Ops' accessory, Boss," Zayyan grinned, though his eyes were cold and sharp as the shattered ice. "It matches the tie. Now, stay behind me. We’re taking the service stairs."

"Zayyan—"

"Trust the delivery guy, Keisha," he said, clicking the safety off. "I promised you I’d never let the soup get cold. And I’m sure as hell not letting you get cold either."

As another shot rang out, chipping the marble pillar next to them, Zayyan didn't flinch. The "Ghost of Jakarta" was back. And he was about to show Marcus Thorne that some debts are paid in lead, not gold.