Chapter 56.1

Elizabeth unfolded her white cane and exited the elevator. Although she could vaguely see the shapes of objects around her, she had to maintain her act of being blind; Elizabeth needed to use her cane as she never knew who could be watching. After all, it would be dubious if someone discovered that she, as someone who's blind, could effortlessly navigate the corridors of her hotel without the aid of her cane.

Arriving in front of her suite's door, she paused, her hand mere millimetres from the handle. The intuition she had developed throughout her career, which had yet to fail her, set off alarms in her mind.

An intruder? she thought grimly before turning to face the door. Her Aura Sight could be focused on allowing her to see the aura of life through inanimate objects, albeit temporarily, and she caught the sight of a figure standing near her dining table, his back to her. Almost immediately, she ruled out Jenny or Tommy being the figure; Jenny's curved body was shaped differently while Tommy was much bigger than the figure she gleaned through her special sight.

As her thoughts on the intruder swept through her mind within seconds, Elizabeth's hand began moving and she opened the door nonchalantly, pretending to not notice even as a thin compartment the handle on her white cane opened, revealing itself to be a barely noticeable dart gun, the tip of which was no doubt drenched in lethal poison.

"Now, is that any way to greet your father?" the figure playfully asked as he turned around. At first, the intruder pretended to not know that Elizabeth was behind him, but when she raised the barrel of her dart gun to his back, he decided to stop playing.

The man in front of her was well past his sixties, yet he appeared to be a lot younger. His dark hair was lined on both sides with large streaks of grayish-white hair, and his strong yet wrinkled face had zero age spots. His dark eyes, sunken with craftiness but tempered with wisdom and experience, shone with amusement as he lifted a glass of red wine to his lips.

"Mmm," he savored the drink before raising his glass in a toast to Elizabeth. "Liber Pater. My, you do have a taste for the finer things in life, don't you? Freya."

Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief as she lowered her weapon, but still remained on guard. "What are ye doing 'ere? An' yer not my father."

"Not by blood, no," the mysterious man agreed, his cunning eyes turning soft for the briefest moment. "But, to me, you've always been the closest I've had to a daughter."

"Ye didn't answer me question," Elizabeth pointed out.

The man, Freya's father, didn't reply immediately. Instead, he looked at her for a moment before taking another sip from his glass and gesturing at the dining table.

"Hm, come," he said to Elizabeth as he sat down. "Sit."

As he spoke, the suite's door opened after a curt knock and a hotel waiter entered while pushing a trolley. Within a few seconds of entering, the waiter placed several plates of various dishes and a new bottle of wine before exiting.

"Thanks, but ay prefer standing," Elizabeth answered.

"And let such good food go to waste?" The man asked inquisitively, placing a fork of his pepper-crusted beef tenderloin into his mouth while gesturing at the table, which was set for two, as he chewed.

"Wilson …"

"I came to see how you were doing," Wilson interrupted, his voice imposing enough to cut her off despite him speaking in a low voice. "You've always had impeccable timing on your previous assignments but this time . . ."

Wilson dawdled, chewing on another forkful of beef before adding, "Not to mention, the mark this time is your beloved . . ."

Wilson eyed Elizabeth sharply as she winced, his doubts were clear as day and Elizabeth looked away for a moment, unable to maintain her calmness.

"I-I'm working on it," Elizabeth replied rather meekly. "It's taking time."

The atmosphere changed as Wilson meticulously studied her face, searching for a hint of lie while Elizabeth turned to gaze back at him without a shred of guilt, her serenity returned. After a moment of silence, Wilson smiled, approval gleaming through his experienced eyes.

"Good," he said with satisfaction. "The mark this time is too important to miss."

"Why?" Elizabeth asked, her question encompassing the many questions, doubts, and the pain she felt.

Wilson paused his fork in midair and sighed, his face falling as he understood Elizabeth's pain. "If it were up to me, dear, I would've never wanted to do this. He is a very dangerous individual, and a frightening enemy to have. But there's nothing I can do."

"But yer the -"

"Being the Head of Morta does not mean I rule the organization," Wilson corrected Elizabeth before she could finish. "This is not only a mark but an agreement. An agreement made centuries ago . . . an agreement we must fulfill."

"But . . . Jason's -" Elizabeth's voice broke as she swallowed whatever she wanted to say.

"Must be taken care of," Wilson calmly finished. "I'm sorry, but it must be done. And you must do it. If you don't -"

Wilson paused, his eyes locked on Elizabeth before he continued in a slow voice.

"- You will become the next mark. And there is nothing I could possibly do to protect you, not this time. After all, that is the rule."

Finish the mark, no matter the cost . . . or become the mark. It was the inexpressible rule of Morta, one that every assassin, hitman, and hired killer within the organization knew.

Wilson finished eating and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief before he stood up to leave. After passing Elizabeth, he abruptly paused, right in front of the door, his hand on the door handle.

"Oh, and before I forget," Wilson turned back to Elizabeth, his sympathetic eyes falling on her stomach. "Congratulations. I would drink less though if I were you. After all, it could harm the child."