Amira swallowed.
“Three?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Khalil, Amar, or Zafir.” Doï Hassaï closed his eyes for a second, exhausted. “The peacock, the glutton, or the mobster. It’s all the same to me. Just… make sure that tomorrow the sky rises above the towers that still belong to you.”
Amira left the bedroom with the feeling that she had just signed a part of her soul, even though she had touched a little piece.
The ballroom of the Seve Star Hotel, owned by Salgado, shone like an open jewel.
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