Chapter Text
‘Let’s skip the pleasantries,’ says the man on the other side of the encrypted video call, his accent lending the dull English syllables a momentary musicality. ‘What business does Babel want with us?’
Choi Myung Hee keeps her professional smile plastered to her face. Placating spoilt rich egomaniacs who treat her like a rug to rub their dress shoes on is one of the less pleasant parts of her job, but her pay check is more than worth the jabs at her pride. Besides, she doesn’t want to antagonize the already twitchy new boss of the real estate corporation the board hopes to buy from.
The words come out slowly, painfully clumsy even to her own ears. ‘My client... is interested in... the Monte Carlo casino.’
Paolo Cassano has the gall to laugh at her.
‘The vaccine profits made your bosses that bold, huh?’
He straightens up from his slouch and crosses his arms as if to take up more space in the video call window, and Myung Hee wonders if the family pride will win.
It doesn’t.
She gives him the initial offer, a sum lower than Babel’s allowance so she wouldn’t find herself exceeding her spending threshold during negotiations.
They shoot numbers back and forth for a minute, but it’s more a gesture of respect towards the standing of the family than an equal discussion. She knows who has the bargaining power here.
It makes her giddy, so she chimes, ‘I heard the pandemic... was not... as kind to your resorts... as it was to Babel. If you’re drowning... accept a helping hand. Threats and corpses... make for bad publicity.’
Paolo sneers. Takes a pistol to the camera’s line of sight. Spins it in leisurely his hand.
‘You’re one to talk, Miss Choi. How many of Babel’s legal problems disappeared with a few... accidents?’
‘I have no idea—’
He raises the hand holding the pistol, palm-first.
‘Tell your bosses we have a deal. If,’ he looks into the eye of the camera, ‘you magic away a small inconvenience for me.’
In the thrill of victory, Myung Hee drops the accent she keeps like a shield around herself, the charade of ignorance that allows her to strike true time and again.
‘Whatever you need.’
Paolo leans closer to the microphone, conspirational. ‘The problem’s called Vincenzo Cassano.’