The Son-In-Law’s 99 Days Of Deception

Chapter 8

Before Killian could reply, Vesper was already walking briskly toward the front, heading straight for the altar doors.

​Someone to meet. Could it be the Priest?

​A sharp spike of adrenaline cut through Killian’s boredom. He followed closely behind.

​Vesper stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door at the back of the altar, shoved it open, motioned for Killian to enter first, and slammed it shut.

"Well, well. The one and only Vesper the Viper."

Vesper's expression softened into a smile.

"Exodus."

The two men clasped hands.

Killian took the opportunity to study the young man.

Exodus was tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in tattoos that disappeared beneath his dark clothing. His long hair framed an angular face, and he stood a little taller than Killian.

There was something deliberate about the way he carried himself, his posture radiating aggressive, coiled tension. He looked like a man accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room—and deeply offended by the possibility that he might not be.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Vesper said.

His tone had changed. It was calmer now, almost casual.

"This is Rowoon Machado. Our newest member."

Exodus turned.

The moment the tattooed giant’s eyes locked onto Killian, his expression curdled into something sharp and deeply hostile.

A fraction of a second too long before he smiled.

"What's up, dude?" Exodus extended his hand. "Name's Exodus. Welcome to the family."

Killian shook it.

"Thanks."

Exodus's grip tightened slightly.

"I hope you last."

There it was.

The smile remained, but the welcome had been nothing more than a warning delivered politely.

Killian returned the smile.

"I hope you do too."

Exodus's expression faltered.

For a moment, neither man released the other's hand.

Then Killian let go.

Vesper Vesper chuckled, completely misreading the subtext. "Not Exodus. He's been here for twenty years."

Killian kept his expression neutral. He had memorized Exodus’ info weeks ago: A notorious assassin. An ambitious man not just perpetually starved for the Priest’s direct validation he had a particular weakness for the Priest's approval. He accepted the most dangerous assignments, pursued the most difficult targets, and made sure everyone knew about his achievements.

He was a creature of habit and violence—a useful dog trained to leap at the slightest twitch of his master’s brow.

Recognition was his currency.

Killian had met men like him before. Men who mistook being useful for being indispensable.

They were often the easiest to manipulate.

“Exodus, you really needed to be there when Rowoon faced Nolan,” Jethro chimed in from the corner of the room, earning a muffled laugh from another syndicate member.

“We can think of him as our new Ben.”

“We all saw how clean that finish was—”

It took Exodus a lot of restraint not to roll his eyes out of his head.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he fought down a wave of irritation. This had to be the fifteenth time Jethro and the others had relived the incident. It wasn’t as if Jethro had even been in the room—Zane had merely briefed them after the fact from the security footage that had circulated among the members.

Exodus had watched that footage twice. It was competent, sure, but overhyped and nothing extraordinary.

Any mid-level cleaner could have dropped Nolan without breaking a sweat. If this new kid could handle it, it was hardly proof of greatness.

“It’ll be nice to have someone besides Exodus who is a skilled fighter,” Jethro goaded with a smirk.

Exodus's smile grew stiffer.

His gaze settled on Killian, who appeared entirely comfortable with the attention.

That irritated him more than the praise.

The newcomer wasn't boasting or trying to impress anyone. He was simply standing there, accepting the attention as though it meant nothing to him.

Exodus had spent twenty years earning his position.

Rowoon had been there for what felt like five minutes, and already people were talking about him.

"One decent fight," Exodus said at last, "and suddenly everyone's found themselves a new favourite."

Exodus’ face darkened into a scowl, though he forced his shoulders to drop, feigning indifference. The newcomer was nothing more than an opportunistic parasite who had stumbled into a high-stakes arena he didn’t belong in.

He had closed out operations in seconds; he didn't have time to applaud someone for surviving a single shred of pure, unearned luck.

"I've completed operations in minutes that would leave other men begging for their lives. I've taken down targets that people here wouldn't dare approach." He allowed his inner thoughts with no regrets.

"Congratulations." Rowoon clapped.

The single word landed with almost insulting indifference.

He wanted a reaction. An argument. Anything that would let him establish the hierarchy between them.

Killian gave him nothing.

Before Exodus could snap back, the side door clicked open.

​Brad, the Priest’s aging personal interpreter, entered the room. The men immediately nodded and greeted him respectfully.

​Brad offered a tired smile, his accent thick. "Dank je wel (Thank you)."

​"Ik vind je kapsel mooi (I like your haircut.)," Killian spoke up seamlessly, his Dutch crisp and flawless.

​A bright smile broke across the old man’s wrinkled face. "Bedankt. Mijn vrouw vindt het mooi (Thanks. My wife loves it)," Brad replied automatically before freezing, his eyes widening as he stared at the young man standing before him.

​Brad looked frantically from Vesper back to Killian, reaching out a hand in that instant. "En jij bent? (And you are?)"

​"Mijn naam is Rowoon. Ik ben het nieuwe lid (My name is Rowoon, I'm the new member)," Killian replied without missing a beat, shaking him.

​The entire room fell into a stunned, suffocating silence. Even Vesper looked like he had just been struck by lightning.

​“You... you speak Dutch?” Vesper blurted out, his composure cracking entirely.

“My grandfather,” Killian replied smoothly, switching back to English, “spent decades in Rotterdam. It was a mandatory household rule.”

Brad’s expression shifted from surprise to absolute, brilliant delight. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Well, I don't think you’ll be struggling to find an interpreter before my ninety-nine days expire.”

A slight smile appeared on Killian’s lips. The deadline Linc had told him about was real. The Priest's interpreter was retiring in 99 days, and Vesper was already looking for someone to take his place.

For the first time since entering the temple, Killian could see a route to the man he had come for.

But an opportunity was not the same thing as an invitation.

For several seconds, Vesper could not take his eyes off Rowoon especially after Brad's last words.

The Priest was notoriously selective. He didn't want just anyone translating his directives or whispering in his ear. Brad had served the syndicate since his youth, privy to secrets that could bury half the eastern seaboard. An interpreter held immense power; they understood the true intent behind the Priest's cryptic orders and could subtly bend the syndicate's direction to their liking. Furthermore, finding a native-level speaker in this isolated corner of the world who could pass the syndicate's brutal vetting process was nearly impossible.

Has Vesper accidentally solved his biggest crisis by bringing this kid in?