133. FELIX YEATS (POV)

133. FELIX YEATS (POV)
I move in slowly, the gun steady in my hand, eyes locked on Simon. The container is narrow, the air thick with the stench of rust and blood. Each step I take echoes off the metal, like a warning. He’s still holding Isabelle, his hand tangled in her hair. She’s on her knees, body tense, eyes begging me to save her.
“Let her go,” I murmur. My voice is low, firm. Controlled. But inside, I’m on fire. “Now, Simon.”
He smiles—crooked, sick. Presses the gun harder against her head. “You should see your face, Yeats. Were you looking for us?”
“Last chance,” I repeat. “Let. Her. Go.”
He ignores me. “You were always so direct, so... noble. But you always lose the ones you love, don’t you? Want to relive that now?”
My grip tightens around the gun. I can’t screw this up. One wrong move, and he pulls the trigger.
“Boss,” Phill whispers through the earpiece. “Cops inbound. Two minutes.”
Tony cuts in right after: “Back’s clear. Safe for now.”
Simon laughs.
“You know what’s worse? She was going to die anyway. Martin was gonna do it for me, just to enjoy watching you fall apart. But now it’s me. And you’ll be all alone. Like you always were.”
Isabelle jerks in his grip. Simon squeezes harder. My gun automatically lifts, pressing hard into his shoulder, steady with everything I’ve got.
“Let’s think this through—if you’ve got the balls to kill her, I’ll kill you. I’ll rip your head off and hand it to your parents as a gift. They’ll love knowing you pissed away years of peace treaties. But maybe... maybe Mr. Shen has no idea what his precious son’s about to screw up.”
The room goes silent for a second. My tone is low, cold, and I know Simon feels every syllable like nails driving into flesh. Isabelle tenses, then her body goes limp, her eyes locked on mine, pleading for help without saying a word.
Simon growls, shoulders tight, the gun shaking against her head as his grip weakens. He forces out a laugh, breath heavy.
“Your shame will be endless, Yeats. My family’s going to use this, like always. We’re not what you think we are.”
“Then tell me what you think you are,” I say, taking a step closer. “Go on, Simon. Speak now—before I tell everyone what he really sent you to do. Listen carefully: your father didn’t back you on this suicide mission. And you know damn well he’d never support someone who hurts women... especially not someone who does it in front of a crowd.”
Simon swallows hard. If he tries to stand his ground, his whole little performance will fall apart. He loosens his grip on Isabelle’s hair and wavers. Her eyes meet mine—full of panic, but also trust. It’s the only thing holding me together.
“Let her go,” I say quietly, shoving the rage deep into my chest. “Before I decide to walk everyone through every step you took.”
He hesitates.
Just then, Phill comes through the radio:
“Boss... cops are closing in fast. You need to get out of there.”
That’s the cue.
Simon freezes. His finger twitches, the gun still aimed—but his arm is shaking. It’s a clear sign: he’s at the edge. Isabelle stumbles, knees buckling, and leans into me like her body knows exactly where it belongs. My left arm wraps around her waist—firm, instinctive, possessive. She’s mine. And not just out of pride. She’s mine because she’s the only good thing that ever came out of the mess that is my life—and I’m not losing her.
My heart feels like a bomb about to go off. Every beat rattles through my ribs. I catch the faint scent of her hair, mixed with sweat and fear. It grounds me.
“Drop the gun, Simon,” I whisper. My voice is low, but it carries a threat strong enough to bring anyone to their knees.
Simon smiles again, but it’s broken now—like the man he’s become. “You don’t get it, Yeats. She was always so damn close to being mine, right up until the moment you showed up and fucked her at that dance. It should’ve been me.”
Time shatters into tiny pieces. The sound of sirens pierces the air—closer now—pulling Simon’s focus for a split second. Phill shouts something through the radio, but all I hear is the blood pounding in my ears.
The sirens grow louder—metallic and sharp—announcing that the cops are almost here. The noise floods my head, drowning everything out except Simon’s face and Isabelle clinging to me. I edge a little closer, my chest pounding, filled with the stench of him—gunpowder and rage. She stays curled into me, trusting the safety I offer. That’s what fuels me.
“Drop the gun, Simon,” I repeat, every word a loaded threat barely restrained. He hesitates—his finger shaking on the trigger. The tension cracks like glass.
In a fast, clean move, I shove Isabelle behind me, shielding her, and swing my gun hard. The barrel smacks his hand. His gun hits the metal floor with a clang. He yells—high and sharp.
Tony and Phill storm in seconds later. One of them grabs Simon from behind. He thrashes, gasping, blood running down his face, but he’s done.
Simon screams, trying to break free, but Phill’s solid—arm locked around his throat, pinning his upper body. Tony scoops up the fallen gun and steps toward the entrance, alert.
“Back path’s clear,” he says, eyes sweeping the inside of the container. “We need to move now.”
I hold Isabelle tighter. She’s still shaking, breathing in short bursts, her face pale and buried against my chest. Her fingers clutch my coat like the world’s crumbling again and I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
“We’re going out the back,” I order, voice rough. “Bring him.”
Simon laughs. Even restrained, even bleeding, even beaten—he laughs.
“You think it’s over, Yeats?” He spits on the ground—blood and saliva mixing. “My father might deny backing me... but who do you think handled the talks with the Kireevs? You really believe you’ve got control over all this?”
My jaw tightens. Phill shoves him harder.
“He’s just bluffing,” Tony mutters.
“Is that so?” Simon grins, teeth stained red. “Check container G-12. You might find something... interesting.”
My eyes snap to Phill.
“Check it.”
He nods and slips out the back exit.
Simon keeps smiling.
“You’ll find out tonight was bigger than you thought, Yeats.”
And for a second—just one—I feel a chill slide down my spine, colder than the barrel of my gun.
He’s gotta be bluffing. No doubt about it. He didn’t intercept the Kireevs’ shipment and bring it here—there’s no way. Simon has no clue what it means to screw over a deal with the Russian mafia. It’s like digging your own grave and sitting in it, just waiting for a visit from Dmitri Kireev himself.