Chapter 171: Kindness for weakness

Chapter 171: Kindness for weakness
Frederic Olmo closed the heavy front door of his mansion, letting out a satisfied sigh. He was tired, but the day's plotting was done; Gabo was spiraling, and the West Coast capos were beginning to lean Olmo's way. He walked into the dining room, expecting quiet reflection, but stopped dead.

Catherine Karakatsanis was waiting.

She was sitting at the mahogany table, not dressed in the provocative dress of their last meeting, but in severe, elegant black trench coat. Her blonde hair, sharp and bright, framed a face that was utterly devoid of softness. Olmo’s initial fatigue vanished, replaced by a spike of intense suspicion.

"Catherine," Olmo demanded, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative register. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

"Our last encounter didn't end very well, did it, Mr. Olmo?" she replied, her voice chillingly calm.

Olmo’s hand twitched toward his pocket, but her eyes, cold and fixed, held him. He chose diplomacy, relying on his arrogance as a shield. "I'm sure we can settle any remaining business."

"I wouldn't do that," Catherine said. Before he could speak, a compact, black pistol—not large, but heavy and professional—materialized in her hand, leveling precisely at his chest. "Drop the phone. Gently."

Olmo complied, letting the phone clatter onto the marble floor.

"Now kick it to me."

He did as he was told. Catherine watched the phone slide across the floor, then crushed it with a sharp, deliberate heel. The sound of cracking glass was a grim punctuation mark.

Olmo straightened, his face twisting into a sneer, the fear momentarily masked by his ingrained arrogance. "Life is not a scene from one of your stupid movies, girl. Karakatsanis is alive, so what? Do you think you can have your 'girl power' moment, pointing a gun you barely know how to use? What exactly do you think is going to happen when you kill me?"

Catherine didn't flinch. "I don't know," she said, a chilling smile touching her lips. "I'm just excited to find out." She lowered the gun slightly, the barrel resting on the mahogany. "You tried to blackmail me into fucking you. And when I didn't, you sent your men after me... and my daughter. I took that very personally, Mr. Olmo. I'm a very protective mother, you know."

Olmo scoffed, trying to regain the upper hand through logic. "Does Karakatsanis know you're here? Your husband is a businessman. He doesn't want me dead. You're going to cause him more problems than he already has."

Catherine laughed, a short, cold burst of amusement. "Oh, Mr. Olmo... I'm merely rushing things for my own delight. You were dead the moment I told my husband what you did to me on this table."

Olmo’s eyes widened, genuine fear flooding his features. "You told him?"

"I did. Now get on your knees."

Olmo tried to plead, his voice cracking with desperation. "Catherine, let's talk. This is not—"

Before Olmo could finish, Catherine’s pistol snapped up. A precise, brutal shot rang out. The bullet struck Olmo's left kneecap, shattering the bone and sending him crashing to the floor in a howl of excruciating pain and shock.

Catherine rose, stepping over the edge of the table to stand above him. She grabbed a handful of his expensive suit jacket, hauling his sweat-soaked face close to hers. The air was thick with the scent of blood and terror.

"You took my kindness for weakness, Mr. Olmo," she hissed, pointing the gun directly at his forehead. "You considered me naive, an easy target. You're not the first. And honestly, I think Kieran would give you a much more elaborate and deserving death. Did you ever hear of how he killed Marcel Dellatorre?" She shook her head, contempt curling her lip. "Well, I'm much kinder than he is. You should be very thankful."

"Please, Catherine," Olmo whimpered, tears of pain mixing with the blood on his face. "You don't want to do this. I'll give you whatever you want—"

"Actually, I do," she said, her voice cold and absolute. "I really want to do this."

Olmo tried to plead one last time, a desperate, gurgling sound escaping his throat, but Catherine didn't wait. She fired, the shot echoing through the mansion, killing him instantly.

Catherine stared into Frederic Olmo's lifeless body, her senses overwhelmed not by horror, but by a chilling, profound relief. She did not draw pleasure from death, from taking a life, but she felt a very specific kind of power in her ability to avenge herself without guilt or shame or remorse. Her entire life, she had considered herself too weak, too fragile; she always felt like she needed to be saved—saved from her father, saved from her brothers, saved from the monstrous violation of Marcel. Kieran had saved her, over and over, but he had also given her something else. His example, his cold, unwavering ruthlessness, had shown her the only true path to survival in this violent, sick, and twisted underworld of crime and death.

To love him, to be with him, meant accepting that she, too, could be ruthless. She didn't have to run to survive. She had to embrace it. And maybe it wasn't pleasurable to kill, but it definitely felt good to put a bullet in Frederic Olmo's head. It was an act of reclamation, a brutal severing of the victimhood that had shackled her for decades.

Not long after the shot echoed through the mansion, the heavy front door groaned open. Solomon walked in, followed by two of Kieran’s men, their boots crunching softly on the glass shards from Olmo's phone. He took in the scene—the expensive rug stained with blood, Olmo's body slumped over the shattered kneecap and his face remained unreadable.

“Are you alright?” Solomon asked, his voice low, focused entirely on her.

"I'm fine," Catherine replied, her voice steady. "Did you clear the house's security?"

“Yes, it's done.”

"Good. Finish this and let's get out of here." Catherine handed the weapon to Solomon, then turned and walked out of the room, leaving the carnage behind without a backward glance.

Solomon caught the gun and studied it for a moment, his gaze lingering on the residual warmth of her hand on the metal. He saw the cold resolve in her posture and knew the delicate woman he had sworn to protect wouldn’t be seen again in a long while.

"Alright, you heard the madam. Bring in our boys," Solomon ordered the two men who had accompanied him.

The men returned, dragging two figures, blindfolded and tightly bound with rope. One was a large man in a suit, Olmo's bodyguard, pale and weak, with two bullet wounds in his stomach, clearly on the verge of death.

Solomon knelt by the bodyguard's side, his expression clinical. He ripped the gag from the wounded man's mouth. The bodyguard let out a weak groan, his eyes fluttering open in a dazed, agonizing confusion.

The other man struggled against his ropes, muffled pleas escaping his lips. Solomon did not hesitate. He placed the muzzle of the bodyguard’s pistol against the back of the captive’s head and fired. The sound was soft, suppressed, quickly muffled by the mansion’s thick walls. The body slumped, dead. He then placed the gun Catherine had used into the dead man’s hand.

Solomon returned to the wounded bodyguard. He then checked the bodyguard's pulse. The man’s life force was fading rapidly from the grievous abdominal wounds he had suffered. They waited in silence, the air thick with the smell of blood and fear. Solomon watched the dim light drain from the bodyguard's eyes, counting the seconds until the man’s pulse finally faltered and ceased.

"Done," Solomon stated, rising. “Let’s go.”

The next day, the news broke. "BUSINESSMAN FREDERIC OLMO KILLED IN HIS OWN RESIDENCE." The report was sensational, detailing a brutal, chaotic scene, where one of Olmo’s bodyguards killed his boss’s assassin while on the verge of death.

The police did not share details with the press, but behind closed doors, the official narrative began to form: the primary suspect, a known local figure named Walton Reed, gave the police some strong, circumstantial evidence that Gabo Valente was behind the mandate of Frederic Olmo's assassination.