Chapter 187
The flashlight beam swept across the living room, and Frank's words caught in his throat.
Bullet holes riddled every surface. Six bodies lay scattered across the tile floor, blood trails converging from different directions, snaking through the grout lines.
The remaining killers' corpses were sprawled where they'd fallen, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Some were frozen mid-draw, others curled into themselves.
William stood in the center of the living room, two more bodies at his feet. These two had been disarmed, hands zip-tied behind their backs with their own belts.
Frank's security team flooded in behind him, moving with practiced efficiency.
Two went to secure the bound killers while the others began cataloging the scene and locking down the apartment. Frank stepped over the carnage and hurried to Victoria, his flashlight instinctively sweeping over her. His expression changed instantly.
Victoria's right hand hung at her side, palm soaked through with blood, fingertips still dripping. The bottom of her shirt had been torn into strips, exposing a pale stretch of skin at her waist, also smeared with blood. Yet her face remained eerily calm, as if the bleeding hand didn't belong to her at all.
"Mr. Howard, your hand—" Frank's voice climbed an octave.
"Superficial," Victoria cut him off, tone flat. "Get him to a hospital first."
She meant Benjamin, lying on the floor.
Only then did Frank notice the figure at Victoria's feet.
He aimed his flashlight down and sucked in a sharp breath.
Benjamin's face was caked with blood and dirt, marked by debris from the gunfire. The gash on his nose bridge still seeped red. A strip of fabric—torn from Victoria's shirt—was wrapped around his neck.
He lay there trembling, tears streaming from his swollen eyes, carving pale tracks through the grime on his face.
Benjamin kept mumbling something. Frank crouched down to make it out: he was calling for Victoria.
Frank froze for a moment.
He glanced up at Victoria, then at William approaching them, and wisely swallowed every question burning in his throat.
William stopped in front of Victoria, his gaze immediately locking onto her blood-soaked hand. His brow furrowed sharply, displeasure flashing in his eyes.
He wasn't angry at her—he was furious with himself for letting her get hurt just feet away from him.
"You caught a knife? With your bare hand? Are you trying to lose it?" His tone carried accusation, but more than that, it carried worry.
Victoria looked up at him, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "I calculated the risk before I moved."
William stared at her for two seconds, then reached out and gripped her wrist, refusing any protest as he turned her hand over to examine the wound. A gash ran across her entire palm, flesh peeling back, still bleeding. It wouldn't cause permanent damage, but it needed stitches.
After the medic performed basic disinfection and stopped the bleeding, he recommended immediate hospital treatment. William said nothing, as if restraining some emotion. Finally, he spoke just one sentence: "We're going home."
Then he bent down and lifted her into his arms.
He didn't say 'hospital.' He said 'home.' Because he'd seen the exhaustion buried deep in Victoria's eyes. Too much had happened tonight. He knew she'd rather be home than in some noisy emergency room.
Sure enough, Victoria didn't struggle in his arms. She simply nodded lightly.
Frank had already directed two guards to load Benjamin onto a stretcher.
As they carried him toward the door, Benjamin twisted back through his haze, mumbling: "Victoria, Victoria, is your hand okay..."
Victoria raised her left hand, signaling she was fine.
Frank escorted the two captured killers to the entrance and assigned two men to stay behind and clean up—wipe the surveillance footage, handle the scene.
Professional teams handled this sort of thing routinely. No need for detailed instructions. What to do, how to do it, to what extent—everyone knew their role.
Chemical cleaners would erase every bloodstain. Alkaline solutions would break down any DNA traces. By sunrise, this apartment would look like nothing had ever happened.
Downstairs, a black Mercedes van waited at the building's rear exit. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with damp earth and a faint ozone tang.
Frank arranged for Benjamin to board the van, two guards and a medic accompanying him for basic wound care during transport.
Benjamin was still crying when they laid him flat on the back seat, tears and blood mixing together, staining a corner of the headrest red.
The medic, flustered by his tears, couldn't help asking: "Does it hurt that badly? Hang in there, we'll be at the hospital soon."
Benjamin shook his head, voice breaking: "It doesn't hurt..."
And it was true. The physical pain had been completely drowned out by something more overwhelming. That emotion lodged in his chest, suffocating and swollen. He didn't know how to release it except through tears.
By now, he'd figured out exactly who'd ordered the hit: Angela.
He remembered what the killer had said. Suddenly, everything made sense.
He closed his eyes, Victoria's blood-soaked hand filling his mind. If she hadn't caught that blade... he didn't dare finish the thought.
And all of this stemmed from 'that incident.'
But he'd never imagined Angela could be this ruthless, completely disregarding the bond they'd shared since childhood. The Angela he'd admired his whole life—the one he'd defied William for, the one he'd been cast out of the family for without a single complaint—wanted him dead.