Chapter 200

Chapter 200

Behind the wall of light were the outlines of cars—three, four, five… Black bodies gleaming with a cold, hard metallic sheen under the glare.

Then the car doors opened, the sound so synchronized it made your chest tighten, followed by footsteps.

At least twenty men, all in black suits, moving with the kind of disciplined precision that screamed special forces training.

They split into two columns, closing in from both ends of the alley simultaneously, forming an impenetrable human wall that trapped the Mercedes Sprinter and the five members of the Clifford Family in the middle.

Michael's face darkened under the harsh white of the headlights, but his spine remained ramrod straight. He didn't retreat a single step.

Jennifer gasped and grabbed Dylan's hand beside her, her nails digging into his sleeve.

Dylan and Colin both stepped forward at the same time, positioning themselves in front of Jennifer and Angela. Their expressions were identical—a hint of desperate, cornered viciousness.

Angela stood at the back, her fingers clenched so tightly around the straps of her tote bag that her nails dug into her palms through the canvas.

She stared at that wall of light, watching the two figures emerge from behind it, her heart seizing as if someone had wrapped a fist around it.

William wore a black coat that fell to his knees, the hem stirring slightly in the night breeze. His face showed no expression, yet somehow radiated an oppressive menace that made the air itself feel thick and suffocating.

Victoria walked half a step behind him, dressed in sleek black casual wear, her long hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her right hand was still wrapped in white gauze. Her gaze was equally sharp and cold, like an unsheathed blade.

Behind Victoria was Frank, who was restraining someone.

It was the assistant Angela had asked to book the plane tickets. Her hands were bound behind her back, her mouth sealed with tape, her eyes wide with terror and pleading. The moment she saw Angela, she shook her head frantically, muffled sounds coming from her throat.

Angela knew it was over. They weren't getting out.

Despair crashed over her in an instant. The bag slipped from her hands and hit the ground with a dull thud. The zipper burst open, and stacks of cash spilled out, fluttering in the night wind with a papery rustle.

Michael stood at the front, less than fifteen feet from William. The two men locked eyes under the harsh white headlights—one old and stubborn, the other young and razor-sharp.

The alley fell so silent that only the whisper of night wind through the boxwood hedges and the low, steady rumble of the Mercedes' idling engine could be heard.

William's gaze swept past Michael to the family behind him—Jennifer trembling in her cashmere cardigan, the two sons standing protectively in front with grim expressions, and Angela at the back, her face ashen.

Then his eyes returned to Michael's face.

He spoke, his voice quiet but perfectly clear in the stillness of the alley.

"Mr. Clifford, going somewhere this late?"

William's voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet alley every word rang crystal clear. His words were polite and measured, yet his tone carried a condescending mockery.

Michael didn't answer the question. He looked William up and down, then slowly pulled his lips into a smile.

He set his briefcase on the ground, clasped his hands behind his back, straightened his slightly hunched spine, and adopted the posture of an elder looking down at William. A cold snort escaped through his nose.

"Hmph. William, who do you think you are? When your father and I were building our empire, you weren't even born yet. Everything you have now—we fought for it with our lives. Me, Quentin, Desmond—the three of us. Yes, the Clifford Family isn't as prominent as the Howard Family anymore. We've fallen. So now you show up at my door with all these people—what, you want to humiliate me?"

William listened, then began to clap. Slowly. Deliberately. The sound echoed through the empty alley—once, twice, three times. Each clap felt like a slap across Michael's face.

"Mr. Clifford, still putting on a show? Aren't you tired?"

"You keep saying you were friends, yet you killed my father first, then used Desmond as your scapegoat. Is that how you treat friends? Ten years ago, when the Howard Group and the Powell Family were at each other's throats, you profited behind the scenes. The Howard Family nearly collapsed, the Powell Family was wiped out, and only the Clifford Family sailed through the next decade in peace. Mr. Clifford, did you sleep well these past ten years?"

Michael's expression changed. He'd been holding onto a sliver of hope that even if William knew something, he wouldn't know everything. But William knew it all.

His lips moved as if to speak, but only a faint, strangled sound escaped his throat. In the end, he chose silence. And his silence was answer enough.

"Mr. Clifford. Or should I call you 'Kaiser'?" Victoria's voice suddenly cut through the tension. Her tone wasn't cold and hard like William's—it was calm, matter-of-fact, almost conversational. But that composure sent a chill down Michael's spine. Because of that name. They even knew about that.

He looked at Victoria intently. "You got into the vault that day."

Michael was certain now that Victoria had played him.

The veins on the back of Michael's hand bulged, his knuckles making faint cracking sounds from the force of his clenched fists.

He'd never imagined that after a lifetime of scheming, he'd be brought down by a young woman. "Quentin, you raised a fine son. And found yourself a fine daughter-in-law…"

"Who received that dagger from the Powell Family?" William stared at Michael, his voice taking on a cold, metallic edge. "Where is Damian's son now?"

Michael looked mildly surprised. "You don't know? Damian's son is—"

Before he could finish, Michael's expression froze.