Madam

Killua stood behind the huge portal of the Priman mansion. He pushed a button on the intercom and waited.

"Priman Mansion, I am the head butler Oscar, how could I help you?"

"I'm Killua Zoaldyeck. I have a meeting with Mrs. Kareha-Priman at 10 A.M."

"I understand. I will be waiting for you at the main entry gate to guide you to Mrs. Kareha-Priman. Thank you for your patience."

And the voice died. The portal automatically opened. Killua noticed cameras hidden here and there above the huge fence, in the trees and the bushes. He walked in, unfazed, taking a few glances at the numerous gadgets of security scattered around the place. He could have been impressed by so much security if he didn't come from a mansion on top of a 3,722-meter mountain, guarded by a T-rex-big dog trained to eat the intruders, kickass butlers and a 'garden' huge enough to host the next Jurassic Park. No need for cameras there. Intruders could come as they wished. Nobody said they could leave,though.

When he reached the marble stairs of the main gate, a young butler was standing outside.

He bowed. "Welcome, Mr. Zoaldyeck. Mrs. Kareha-Priman is waiting for you." he greeted and gestured Killua to follow him.

They walked in a long corridor filled with Renaissance paintings and vibrant tapestries until they reached a hall that led to various rooms. They climbed the stairs and the butler stopped in front of a large ornate door, bowed and opened it.

Killua nodded at him and whispered a 'thank you'. He entered the room, stared at the rows and rows of bookshelves extending in front of him with a mix of amazement and curiosity.

Arashi Kareha-Priman was sitting on a red velvet armchair beside a lacquered low table.

She stood up, smoothed her detailed fall-themed kimono, a soft smile on her face.

"Mr. Zoaldyeck," she greeted, offering a pristine smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." She bowed, and he did like her, poised and respectful.

"The pleasure is mine, Madam."

"I have to thank you for accepting to study my request." She showed him an armchair identical to hers, and they sat down.

"Don't worry about that."

The door opened. The same butler who had brought Killua there – Oscar – appeared with a silver cart carrying cups, cookies and a teapot. He put their cups and saucers on the table and poured them some tea. When Mrs. Kareha-Priman thanked him, he disappeared.

"I thought discussing over tea and cookies would be more pleasant," she said as she put a strand of her long, straight black hair behind her ear.

She brought her cup to her lips. There was something delicate about her. Elegance that showed through her graceful movements. Measure, balance, order. But that wasn't all about her. There was sharpness in her eyes, in her cheekbones, in the curve of her eyebrows and the straight line of her nose. Something cutting, and something fierce. Wild but tamed. Silent but dangerous. Something like the whisper of fallen leaves when fall storms gathered their clouds.

Something that told him that Arashi Kareha-Priman was a lot more than she seemed.

The soft clinking noise of her cup interrupted his thoughts. When she put it down, her expression had hardened. Her black eyes were focused on her cup. She looked at him. "I shall give you all the information I have on the case. If I understood well, you may or may not choose to work on it after that, am I wrong?"

"No, you are right." Although accepting to study the request in person was a strong warranty that he would work on it. But he didn't like making promises he couldn't keep, so he kept that last thought to himself. "Tell me everything you know, I'll listen. I will also take any document you have."

"Fine." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again. "My husband, Eugene, disappeared six months ago, along with the former head butler, Gayan Juma. They were both heading to the mansion, after returning from the Southern Peace auction, when the car was attacked. No bodies were found. Nothing of value was stolen either –or at least that I'm aware of – so I was told it was most likely an act of vengeance from Mafia rivalry. Which would make sense, I suppose, since Eugene had been blackmailed by an Anonymous a few weeks before his disappearance."

Killua frowned. "Could I see the letter?"

"Of course." She got up and brought a binder. She took the letter.

He examined it. It was typed and sounded like some poor quality blackmailing. He could write better blackmail letters when he was just six. "Did he have any known rival?"

"The Montsiege family. They were openly rivals, as they were both collectors of prized masterpieces. But Eleanora Montsiege, the head of the family, denied that she had written that."

"And you believe her."

She nodded, looking him in the eye. "I do. Eleanora has always been very open about her vehemence. If she had wanted to harm him, she would definitely have signed with her own hand." She paused. "I think she might as well have come here herself to stab him."

"So a straightforward rival," he deduced.

"Very. Eleanora takes pride in that. She doesn't feel the need to hide because she believes her victory is assured anyway."

Killua refrained a scoff. He took a look at the letter again. "Well, the letter sounds like a very standard blackmailing letter. It could be anyone. Its author was probably aware of the situation between the two families and snatched this opportunity to strike. Of course, the possibility that the Montsiege family could be involved still stands, but I wouldn't bet on that. Especially if the head of the family is as you described her."

"So we have the same opinion about this issue."

"It seems like we do."

She fell silent. "I had hired a few detectives before you since I could not think of talking to the police –you know the Code of Silence in the Mafia." As he nodded, she kept going. "They were all killed, or greatly injured."

A spark of interest fused at her words, but he remained impassible. "And those who were injured? Did they tell you anything about what happened to them?"

"Nothing. They gave up on the case and refused to talk to me any longer."

Or were coerced not to talk to her any longer. "Were they hunters?"

"Some of them were. Crime hunters and blacklist hunters. They were injured, mostly. One was killed."

He crossed his legs. "So we have an aggressive opponent."

She tensed. "I couldn't withdraw that information from you. It has discouraged a lot of other people before you."

"That doesn't scare me." His last name alone had brought him more death threats than any aggressive anonymous killer ever would. From people who wanted to behead him and stuff his head to earn billions on the black market –and miserably failed – to dauntless wannabe Allies of Justice. And well, that was when people sick with vengeance weren't involved. He thought of Anita, the girl who had tried to kill him during the hunter exam, and wondered how many more Anitas would try to avenge the people he or his family had killed. "I'm more concerned about how solvable the issue is. Do you have any hint so far?"

"Very few. Apart from this letter, I have a single bullet, and the few reports the detectives got to write."

"What about the butler? Gayan Juma, if I remember well?"

"Nothing. Nothing that I know of."

He pondered the situation. "Yet."

She blinked, and there was hope in her eyes. "Would that mean…?"

He remained silent, lost in thought. His mind worked, twisted, buzzed with thoughts and speculations. Hypotheses flew and fought, ideas confronted and collapsed. He wrote scenarios of what could happen, what could have happened, what wouldhappen. Every neuron was wrung to think harder, to filter his thoughts and organize them. He looked at her. "I might work on this issue. I need some time to decide, but I will call you back."

"I understand," she assured, but her features were already lighter. Relieved. Because she had probably heard that when Killua Zoaldyeck considered taking a case, he had already started working on it, had probably even started thinking of solutions.

And in a way, she was right.

Later on, they discussed a few more points, including the various reactions of influent mobsters. Eugene Priman's disappearance had sent a shockwave through the Mafia World, like a cold shower suddenly splashing them. He had been one of the most peaceful among them, more focused on his personal ambitions than on power itself. He was just known as this quiet Renaissance collector who had meddled with the underworld in order to replenish his collection, this curious traveler, this passionate reader who had based all his wealth on the paper industry to nourish all his interests. How he of all mobsters had been targeted was beyond understanding –and beyond Arashi Kareha-Priman's understanding. The Mafia was now afraid of a vendetta against all its community.

That, of course, was one of the many possibilities Killua had envisaged. But not his favorite one –a personal vendetta was more plausible to him. His intuition was prickling, and he trusted his intuition.

After their discussion, she gave him a few documents he would need –photos of the car, the exact address and pictures of the location of the impact, the previous detectives report, and the letter – as well as the little hints she had – the bullet among them.

She walked him herself to the entry gate, and he left the mansion with the binder.

During the whole time, he was toying with the bullet.

He knew where he would need to go.