Chapter 8
The city skyline burned with bright, violent colors as the sun set, mirroring the chaos exploding across the southern districts. Duncan’s retaliation was not a surgical strike; it was a devastating, overwhelming display of absolute power.
Cinematic, fiery light illuminated the alleyways as Duncan’s men systematically dismantled the Moretti syndicate’s operations. Warehouses were raided, illicit cargo was seized, and loyalists were neutralized with brutal efficiency. Duncan led the primary assault team himself, his tailored suit jacket discarded, an assault rifle resting comfortably in his tattooed hands.
His face was a mask of cold, terrifying concentration. He moved through the chaos with the precision of a ghost, his extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble catching the orange glow of a burning transport truck.
"The southern port is secure, Boss," Silas yelled over the sound of distant sirens, jogging up to Duncan’s position behind a concrete barricade. "Moretti’s men are surrendering by the dozens. They didn't expect us to hit them with this much firepower."
"Where is Moretti?" Duncan asked, his voice cutting through the noise, low and measured.
"He’s fortified inside his private club downtown," Silas reported. "He has about twenty heavily armed guards locked inside with him. It’s a fortress, Duncan."
"There are no fortresses," Duncan replied coldly. "Only cages."
"Load the transport vans," Duncan ordered, his sharp, intimidating eyes locking onto the distant city lights. "We are finishing this tonight."
Meanwhile, back at the Wetherby estate, the grand mansion was eerily quiet. The bright, vivid lighting of the interior felt oppressive and suffocating.
Anwen sat on the edge of the massive bed in the master suite, her fair, rosy skin pale with exhaustion and fear. Leo was fast asleep, his small head resting on her lap. She gently stroked his dark, wavy hair, praying for Duncan’s safe return.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the hallway outside was broken by the muffled sound of a suppressed gunshot. Pfft. Then another. Pfft.
Anwen froze, her blood turning to ice. The four-man detail stationed outside her door had gone completely silent.
Heavy footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor, stopping directly outside the master suite.
Anwen carefully lifted Leo’s head off her lap and stood up, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She looked around the luxurious room for a weapon, her eyes landing on a heavy brass fireplace poker resting near the hearth. She grabbed it, her knuckles white, and positioned herself between the door and the sleeping child.
The brass handle of the heavy oak door slowly turned.
"Duncan?" Anwen whispered, her voice trembling with desperate hope.
The door pushed open. It was not Duncan.
Standing in the threshold was Felice.
The former fiancée was no longer wearing an elegant evening gown. She wore dark, functional clothing, her fair skin smeared with dirt and sweat. Her eyes were wide, manic, and burning with a psychotic, unhinged hatred. In her right hand, she held a suppressed, matte-black pistol.
"Hello, Anwen," Felice smiled, the expression grotesque and terrifying. "Did you really think Duncan’s thugs could keep me out of my own house? I know the security codes. I know the blind spots."
Anwen raised the heavy brass poker, her hands shaking violently. "Get out of here, Felice. If you touch my son, Duncan will kill you."
May you like
"Duncan is going to die tonight at my father's club," Felice laughed, a cold, bitter sound. She raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Anwen’s chest. "And you are going to die right here. But first, I’m going to make you watch as I take care of the bastard."
Felice cocked the hammer of the pistol. The metallic click echoed loudly in the quiet bedroom.
