The air by the pool at the De Klerk mansion was perfumed with jasmine and old money, but for Beauty Masilela, it smelled of sulfur.
“Midnight?” Beauty snapped, stepping between Zweli and Josephine. “The workers need to be paid at 5 PM. If we make them wait seven hours, they will tear the site apart.”
Josephine shrugged, adjusting her sunglasses. “Anticipation builds character. Tell them the armored truck got a flat tire. Lie to them, Beauty. Isn’t that what construction managers do?”
Zweli looked at Josephine, then at Beauty. He saw the desperation in his wife’s eyes. He saw the smug victory in Josephine’s.
“I accept,” Zweli said, his voice flat.
“Zweli!” Beauty gasped.
“But,” Zweli held up a finger, staring Josephine down behind her dark lenses. “I need a photo. Right now. Of the R2 million in cash, inside the briefcase, with today’s newspaper next to it. I need proof to show Voster, or there won’t be a site to come back to.”
Josephine smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips. “Pragmatic. I like it. Deal.”
Menlyn Construction Site: 04:55 PM
The sun was dipping below the horizon, turning the sky a bruised purple. The mood on the ground was worse.
Three hundred men—taxi drivers, welders, and ex-convicts—stood in the dusty yard. They weren’t working. They were holding iron bars and staring at the site office.
Voster “The Bulldozer” stood at the front, his head bandage stark white against his dark skin. He checked his watch.
“Five minutes, Boss Lady,” Voster muttered to Beauty, who stood on the office steps. “The boys are thirsty. And thirsty men get angry.”
Zweli’s Mercedes V-Class screeched into the site. He jumped out, still wearing his suit, holding his phone high.
“Listen to me!” Zweli shouted, his voice using the Dragon’s Roar projection to cut through the grumbling.
The men turned.
“The government froze the accounts!” Zweli announced. “They want you to go home empty-handed. They want you to quit!”
Angry shouts erupted. “We want our money!”
“And you will get it!” Zweli walked straight into the crowd, showing the screen of his phone to the ringleaders. On it was the photo Josephine had sent: stacks of R200 notes in a silver case, timestamped five minutes ago.
“The cash is secured,” Zweli lied smoothly. “But because the banks are blocked, I had to source it from a private vault. The transport is delayed. It arrives at midnight.”
“Midnight?” a man with a scarred face shouted. “We don’t work night shift for free!”
“Double pay,” Zweli said instantly. “For every hour you wait past 5 PM, I add R500. Cash. Tonight.”
Voster looked at the photo. He looked at Zweli. He saw the tension in Zweli’s jaw, but he also saw the truth in his eyes.
“Midnight,” Voster announced, turning to his men. “We light the fires. We buy beer. We wait. But Masilela…” Voster turned back, his voice dropping. “If that van isn’t here at 12:00… we start breaking windows. And we start with your wife’s office.”
“I’ll be here,” Zweli promised. He turned to Beauty. “Stay in the office. Lock the door. Keep Voster close.”
“Where are you going?” Beauty whispered, grabbing his arm. “To her?”
“To work,” Zweli said, pulling away. “I have a shift to finish.”
De Klerk Mansion: 08:00 PM
The poker room was a cavern of mahogany and green felt. Smoke from expensive Cuban cigars hung in the air.
Zweli stood behind Josephine’s chair. He was wearing a tuxedo she had provided—it fit perfectly, which was disturbing. It meant she had known his measurements.
He stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, pouring a glass of Pinot Noir every time Josephine tapped the rim.
Around the table sat five men. They were the predators of the African economy. There was an American hedge fund manager. A Russian arms dealer. A Nigerian oil tycoon. And a quiet, balding man, Zweli recognised with a jolt.
The Magistrate. The Chief Magistrate of Pretoria. The man who signed warrants. The man who worked for General Mbatha.
“Fold,” the Magistrate grunted, tossing his cards. “Your luck is unnatural tonight, Josephine.”
“It’s not luck, Judge,” Josephine purred, stroking her chips. “It’s intuition. Isn’t that right, Zweli?”
She snapped her fingers. “More wine, darling. And wipe the table. You missed a spot.”
Zweli stepped forward. He poured the wine. He took a napkin and wiped a microscopic speck of ash from the felt. He felt the heat of humiliation rising up his neck. The Magistrate was looking at him with vague recognition.
“Have we met?” the Magistrate asked, squinting at Zweli. “You look familiar. Do you work at the court?”
“I am just the help, sir,” Zweli said, keeping his head down.
“He’s my new toy,” Josephine laughed, placing a hand on Zweli’s hip. “Strong. Silent. Very obedient. Isn’t he pretty?”
The table laughed. Zweli stared at the green felt. Endure, he told himself. For the cash. For Beauty.
The game continued. The pot grew. It was Texas Hold’em. The stakes were high—R5 million on the table.
The American was dealing. Zweli watched him. He saw the American’s pinky finger twitch. He saw the way the man slid the cards.
Bottom dealing, Zweli analysed. He’s feeding the Russian.
The Russian went all in. “I call. Five million.”
Josephine hesitated. She held a Full House. It was a monster hand. But if the Russian was being fed… he had Four of a Kind.
If she lost this hand, she would be down R10 million. She might lose her temper. She might cancel the loan.
Josephine looked at Zweli. “What do you think, bodyguard? Do I feel lucky?”
It was a test.
Zweli leaned in to pour water. As he did, he whispered, barely moving his lips.
“The American is dealing from the bottom. The Russians have four Kings.”
Josephine didn’t flinch. She smiled.
“I fold,” she said, tossing her cards.
The Russian scowled. The American looked nervous.
“Smart fold,” the Magistrate noted. “Very disciplined.”
Josephine stood up. “Gentlemen, a recess. My bodyguard needs to check the perimeter.”
She grabbed Zweli’s arm and dragged him into the hallway. She pushed him against the wall, her body pressed against his.
“You have sharp eyes,” she whispered, her breath smelling of wine. “I like that. You saved me R5 million.”
“I did my job,” Zweli said, looking over her head. “Can I have the money now?”
“Not yet,” she ran a hand down his tuxedo lapel. “The night is young. And you haven’t earned your tip.”
Menlyn Construction Site: 11:15 PM
The fires in the drums were dying down. The beer crates were empty. The mood had shifted from festive to aggressive.
Beauty sat in the locked site office. She watched the CCTV monitor.
Outside, a fight had broken out. Two of the welders were shoving each other. Voster broke it up, but he had to use his fists.
Voster walked to the office window. He banged on the glass.
“Boss Lady!” Voster shouted. “They are getting restless. Some are saying Masilela ran away with the money. You need to call him. Put him on speaker.”
Beauty dialled Zweli.
Voicemail.
She dialled again.
Voicemail.
“He’s not answering,” Voster said through the glass. “That’s bad. That’s very bad.”
A brick smashed through the window of the mobile command centre next door. The mob cheered.
“Midnight!” someone chanted. “Midnight we burn!”
De Klerk Mansion: 11:45 PM
The game was over. Josephine had cleaned the table in the second half, thanks to Zweli’s subtle signals exposing the cheats.
The guests were leaving. The Magistrate stopped by Zweli on his way out.
“I remember now,” the Magistrate whispered. “You’re the construction guy. The one the General hates. Masilela.”
He chuckled. “Reduced to a waiter? How the mighty have fallen. I must tell the General.”
He walked out.
Zweli turned to Josephine. “The money. It’s 11:45. I need to go.”
“Of course,” Josephine walked to the wall safe hidden behind a painting. She spun the dial.
She pulled out the silver briefcase. R2 million in cash.
She placed it on the table.
“Here it is,” she said.
Zweli reached for it.
Josephine placed her hand on top of his.
“One last condition,” she said softly.
“We had a deal,” Zweli growled.
“The deal was for the loan,” she said. “But the interest… I want to renegotiate the interest.”
She pulled a room key from her cleavage.
“Stay,” she said. “Forget the construction site. Forget the angry wife. Forget the debt. Stay here tonight. Be my King. And you don’t have to pay back the R2 million. It becomes a gift.”
Zweli looked at the key. He looked at the briefcase.
If he stayed, his financial problems vanished. He would be free of debt. But he would lose Beauty forever.
If he left, he had to race across the city in 15 minutes to stop a riot, and he would still owe this shark R2.4 million in 30 days.
Zweli grabbed the briefcase handle.
“I already have a Queen,” Zweli said.
He yanked the case free and turned to run.
“Zweli!” Josephine shouted, her voice shrill with rejection. “If you walk out that door, I call the Magistrate! I tell him you stole that money! You will be arrested before you reach the gate!”
Zweli stopped. He looked back at her.
“Call him,” Zweli said. “But tell him I also know about the illegal diamond pouch he hid in his jacket pocket during the game. The one you gave him as a bribe.”
Josephine’s eyes widened. He had seen that too.
“Go,” she whispered, furious. “But watch your back, Zweli. Love turns to hate very quickly.”
The Race: 11:58 PM
The Mercedes V-Class flew down Justice Mohammed Street at high speeds. Zweli was driving like a madman.
His phone rang. Beauty.
“They are lighting the rags, Zweli!” she screamed. “They are surrounding the office! Where are you?”
“I’m joining Atterbury! Two minutes!”
“We don’t have two minutes! Voster can’t hold them!”
Menlyn Site: 12:00:00
The mob surged forward. A Molotov cocktail was lit. The man prepared to throw it at the site office where Beauty was trapping herself.
SCREECH.
The Mercedes V-Class smashed through the plastic barriers at the gate. It drifted sideways into the yard, kicking up a storm of dust that choked the fires.
The van door flew open.
Zweli stepped out. He was still in the tuxedo, looking like James Bond after a rough night.
He threw the silver briefcase onto the hood of the van. He popped the latches.
He flipped it open.
Stacks of cash. R2 million.
“PAYDAY!” Zweli roared.
The mob stopped. The Molotov was lowered. A cheer went up that shook the windows of the neighbouring hotels.
Voster slumped against the wall, exhaling.
Beauty ran out of the office. She saw Zweli standing there in the tuxedo, bathed in the headlights, handing out bundles of cash to the gangsters.
He looked exhausted. He looked humiliated. But he had kept his word.
She walked up to him as the workers queued for their money.
“You look ridiculous,” she said, touching his bow tie.
“It was a formal event,” Zweli smiled weakly.
“Did you… did you have to do anything…” Beauty couldn’t finish the question.
Zweli took her hand. “I poured wine. I spotted a cheat. And I came home.”
Beauty looked at him. She believed him.
“You smell like her perfume,” she whispered.
“I’ll burn the suit,” Zweli promised.
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