Chapter 280

ALEXANDER

One of the intruders rounded the tree before stopping so abruptly I thought he'd forgotten how to walk.

“…Alexander Dimitri?”

For a long second, he simply stared.

Then a slow, greedy grin spread across his face as he raised his rifle higher, aiming it squarely at my chest.

“Well… I’ll be fucked.”

His grip tightened around the rifle as excitement lit up his face, a cocky, shit-eating grin spreading across his ugly mug.

“I found Alexander Dimitri. The big bad mafia king himself.”

He shook his head, almost unable to believe his own luck, like he’d just won the lottery and a Nobel Prize at the same time.

“Santos is going to be very, very happy with me. Hell, I might even get a fucking promotion for this.”

I sighed.

“…Congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“You found me.”

I spread my arms lazily.

“Would you like a certificate? Maybe a little gold star? I can draw one on your forehead before I cave your skull in.”

His grin twitched.

“You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He took another confident step toward me, the muzzle of his rifle never wavering.

Cocky.

Comfortable.

He’d made the classic mistake.

He thought the man holding the gun controlled the situation.

Cute.

He looked me up and down, amusement returning.

“You’ve got a rifle pointed at you and you still act all tough, Dimitri? Still trying to act like you’re the big bad mafia king when I’ve got you at my mercy. Santos owes me a fucking bonus for delivering the great Alexander Dimitri on a silver platter.”

Mercy?

I almost laughed.

You think you have me at mercy?

Adorable.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“And your woman…”

A filthy smirk spread across his face.

“Oops. I mean… Santos’ woman.”

I didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

“He sent us here for her,” he continued, voice dripping with cocky arrogance.

“And now we get the mafia king as the cherry on top. What a fucking bonus. Santos is going to throw a goddamn party when we drag both of you back. Me? I’m getting a raise, a promotion, and probably a nice little vacation after this."

I simply stared at him.

His grin began to fade.

“What?”

I tilted my head.

“I’m deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“The most painful way to kill you.”

He laughed again, but it sounded a little less sure this time.

“You really think you’ve got a chance?”

I smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Oh, I don’t think. I know.”

His jaw clenched.

“Listen very carefully.” I took one slow step toward him.

“My wife belongs to me.”

Another step.

“And only me.”

I smiled.

“She certainly doesn’t belong to a sewer rat like Santos.”

He instinctively took half a step back.

Then quickly caught himself, embarrassed that I’d noticed.

“…Stop walking.”

I ignored him.

“Stop.”

Another step.

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m pointing a gun at you!”

“And yet…”

I glanced down at his boots.

“…you’re the one walking backwards.”

His face darkened.

“I said stop!”

I chuckled.

“You keep saying that like it’s some sort of magical spell.”

His finger tightened on the trigger.

“You think that gun makes us equals?”

I smiled wider.

“It doesn’t.”

“It just means I have to kill you before you pull it.”

His face reddened.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Temper, temper.”

“I’ll shoot you!”

“You’ve been saying that for almost a minute now.”

I glanced around theatrically.

“I’m beginning to think the safety’s still on.”

His eyes darted to the rifle.

Just for a fraction of a second.

That was all I needed.

I moved.

The rifle went flying as I disarmed him, then I drove my elbow into his throat, cutting off his air before he could scream.

He staggered back, gasping, and I followed, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until I heard the snap of bone.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his broken arm, eyes wide with pain and terror.

I crouched down in front of him, knife in hand, voice calm and cold.

“You came here for my wife.”

I pressed the blade against his throat.

“You talked about her like she was a toy.”

I leaned in closer.

“You thought you could take her from me.”

I smiled.

“Let me show you why they call me the most feared man in this city.”

I drove the dagger into his throat and twisted.

He gurgled once, eyes bulging, then went still.

I wiped the blade clean on his jacket and stood up.

Pathetic.

I looked down at his corpse for a second longer.

“Should’ve kept your mouth shut about my wife.”

I lowered him to the ground, wiping the blade clean on his jacket.

Pathetic.

“Bonus denied. And No certificate for either.”

Then I moved on.

I was in the middle of snapping a guy's neck when I heard the unmistakable sound of boots hitting gravel in coordinated rhythm.

I closed my eyes for half a second.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

That better not be my fucking wife.

Because if Alina had somehow ignored every single thing I'd said, and decided to join the fight again, I was genuinely going to have an aneurysm.

Forget Santos.

Forget the mercenaries.

Forget the armed psychopaths storming the orphanage.

My biggest threat tonight had almost given me a concussion with a fuvking baseball bat.

I turned, already preparing a speech like, what is wrong with you, and possibly divorce.

Not Alina.

Thank God.

Vincent slipped between the trees like a ghost, silent and precise, the way I’d trained him. No random swinging. No attempted husband murder. Just professionalism. The way God intended.

He’d been trained by me. They all had. Quiet. Efficient. Lethal. No wasted movement. No unnecessary noise. They knew exactly how to hunt.

Another shadow moved near the far truck.

Dante.

One hand over a man’s mouth, knife across his throat.

Clean.

Fast.

Beautiful work.

The bastard never even had time to panic before he was on the ground.

Good boys, I thought with grim satisfaction.

See, wife? This is helping.

Nobody’s accidentally bludgeoned me yet.

They were my best.

Hand-picked.

Loyal.

Disciplined.

Professionals.

And right now, they were doing exactly what they were trained to do — thinning the herd without drawing attention to the children or Alina.

I allowed myself one small, satisfied smile in the darkness.

That’s my team.

The kind of men who followed orders instead of treating them like mildly interesting suggestions.

And right now, they were doing exactly what they had been trained to do.

Cutting through Santos's men.

Protecting the children.

Protecting Alina.

Thinning the herd without turning the orphanage into a battlefield.

My men.

Finally.

A group of competent people.

What a refreshing change.

I gripped the dagger tighter, already moving toward the next target.

I wasn't going to let them get anywhere near what was mine.

I moved again, circling toward the next target, my mind sharp and focused.

This was what we did.

This was what we were good at.

And today, we were going to remind Santos's men exactly why they should have stayed the fuck away.

I dropped the body and turned just in time to see them pouring in from the tree line — black-clad, professional, moving like they owned the night.

Vincent was in front, rifle up, already cutting down two of Santos’s men with precise, controlled bursts.

Dante was right behind him, taking out another with a knife to the throat before the bastard could even scream.

I let out a low, relieved breath.

“Thats my fucking boys...Shame Leo's missing out on the fun..”

The tide turned almost instantly.

My men knew how I fought — quiet, efficient, lethal.

They fell into formation without a word, covering each other, sweeping the courtyard with deadly precision. Gunfire erupted in short, controlled bursts. Shouts turned to screams. Bodies hit the ground.

I didn’t wait.

I moved with them, knife in one hand, pistol in the other, cutting through the remaining attackers like a blade through silk.

One man tried to bring his rifle up as I closed in.

I disarmed him, drove the knife into his throat, and kept moving.

Another turned toward me, eyes wide with panic.

I shot him in the face.

A third tried to run.

I caught him from behind, snapped his neck, and let him drop.

The fight became a blur of motion and violence — my men and I working in deadly sync, thinning the herd with brutal efficiency. The courtyard echoed with gunfire, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the occasional scream cut short.

One man was left standing near the last truck, breathing hard, rifle shaking in his hands.

I walked toward him, calm as death, blood dripping from my blade.

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged him closer until we were almost nose to nose.

“Listen carefully.”

Blood dripped from his mouth as he stared at me, barely conscious.

“You're going to crawl back to Santos.”

I smiled.

“And when you see him…”

My voice dropped into something frighteningly calm.

“Tell him to start counting.”

His brow furrowed.

“Not his money.”

“Not his men.”

“His breaths.”

I tightened my grip.

“Because every breath he takes from this moment on is one closer to me putting him in the ground.”

I leaned in until he had no choice but to look into my eyes.

“Tell him the only peaceful breath he'll ever take again...”

A humorless smile spread across my face.

“…will be the last one before I bury him.”

I gave a quiet chuckle.

“No... scratch that.”

“I don't intend to let him die peacefully.”

I released him with a shove.

“Tell Santos his days are numbered.”

“Tell him every sunrise is borrowed.”

“Tell him to kiss his loved ones, say his prayers, and get whatever affairs he has left in order.”

“Because I'm coming.”

“And when I find him…”

I smiled—a cold, monstrous smile.

“I won't just kill him.”

“I'm going to make him beg for a death I refuse to give him until I'm finished.”

I looked him over one last time.

“Make sure you remember every word.”

“Because it's the last useful thing you'll ever do.”

The man’s expression changed slowly — a weak, trembling smile spreading across his bloody lips.

“It’s too late.”

I stopped.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

He tapped his earpiece, still smiling, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Just got news. Santos got exactly what we came looking for.”

My blood turned to ice.

I grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand.

“Say that again,” I growled, voice low and dangerous.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

He choked out a laugh, eyes bulging.

“She’s gone, Dimitri. Your pretty little wife… Santos has her.”

I snapped his neck.

The body dropped.

I stood there for half a second, chest heaving, heart hammering in my ears, blood roaring in my head.

Alina.

No fucking way.

“Alina!” I shouted, voice raw, the sound ripping out of me and echoing across the courtyard like a desperate prayer.

No answer.

I ran.

My boots pounded against the gravel, each step jarring through my bones as my eyes darted wildly across every shadow, every corner.

I couldn’t see her.

Panic clawed up my throat, sharp and suffocating, making my vision tunnel and my hands shake as I sprinted back to the planter where I’d last seen her.

Only the baseball bat lay on the ground, abandoned and useless.

No.

No.

No.

I turned, legs moving before my brain could catch up, running back to where the kids were hiding.

Mia was with them.

“Where the fuck is she?!” I demanded, voice cracking with raw panic.

“I don’t know. She went after you to help. Haven’t seen her since.”

Fuck.

The word hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of my lungs and sending a fresh wave of panic crashing through me

My chest tightened.

My hands shook.

No

I turned, scanning the courtyard again, heart pounding so hard it hurt, sweat mixing with blood on my skin, the metallic taste of fear coating my tongue, making it hard to breathe.

“Alina!”

No answer.

The fight was over — my men had the situation under control, bodies littering the ground, the last of Santos’s men either dead or running.

But Alina was gone.

Santos had her.