Chapter 1270 Mr. Harrington Spat Up Blood
Chapter 1270 Mr. Harrington Spat Up Blood
"Please, spare me — I'll talk, I'll tell you everything I know. There's a video too. Please, spare my life."
The other old woman, watching her companion lying on the ground half-dead, went pale with terror and began to shake.
Eve and Frank both felt their hearts drop the moment they heard the word video. Eve didn't waste a second. "Where is it? Talk, or you're dead."
"I'll tell you. I'll tell you."
The woman collapsed face-down on the floor, barely clinging to life — but clinging to it all the same.
Even Victoria hadn't known they'd recorded video.
They hadn't just taken photos of what was done to her. There had been footage too.
"The contact on the other side demanded daily video proof that your wife was being — that she was suffering. We were afraid they'd disappear once the job was done and leave us with nothing, so we kept a copy for ourselves."
"What?"
So there wasn't just one copy of the video. There were at least two. Which meant —
Eve couldn't hold it together anymore. The fury and the desperation broke through her face all at once. She closed the distance and grabbed the woman by the collar. "Who's behind this? Who gave the orders?"
"We genuinely don't know. Even the number was blocked. Untraceable."
The old woman rushed to explain herself.
Eve shot a look at Frank, because that kind of setup was entirely plausible. In their line of work, the deeper the cover, the better.
Frank looked calm by comparison — steadier, more controlled — but the quiet behind his eyes said everything.
Three people had put Victoria through hell. What happened to them now?
Frank studied the two old women — both well into their sixties — and the young man, somewhere in his mid-twenties. None of them looked like hardened killers. And yet this was the combination that had been chosen.
They deserved to die. Every one of them.
But not quickly.
That evening, Alexander made an excuse about a business dinner and shut himself inside a private room at the club.
He sat there alone and watched the video. All of it.
Somewhere in the middle, something shifted in his chest — a slow, heavy pressure building. She lay there on the screen, completely still. He forced himself to keep watching. Then his eyes caught the blood pooling onto the floor, and his body made the decision before his mind could.
He barely made it to the bathroom.
The white basin caught what came up. He didn't flinch. He just stared at the red until it stopped, then turned on the tap and rinsed everything clean with steady hands.
Then he went back in and sat down.
The video was still playing.
No sound. Just the image.
He was glad he hadn't pressed her on what happened. Glad he'd left that door closed. But his chest burned with every breath.
Victoria hadn't been lying on a bed.
She'd been on a metal board. And she hadn't had a single piece of clothing on.
Was that why she'd held onto him so tightly afterward — her arms locked around him, her voice small and urgent, don't let go, don't you dare let go — was this why?
She had been in that place. Every second of it must have stretched like a lifetime. She must have been waiting for him the entire time, holding onto the belief that he was coming — and when he finally found her, it had already been so long.
He was useless.
How had he let this happen to her?
The tears came without warning — silent, steady — and he didn't stop them. He didn't look away from the screen either.
She had been bound. Those two women had treated her like she was nothing. Her body had been marked with blood, then washed down with ice-cold water, and then they had started again — searching her skin for places that would hurt without killing, cutting carefully, methodically.
Those bastards.
Then a man stepped into the frame.
Alexander watched him stop and stand there in silence, staring at Victoria with something unreadable in his face.
Alexander picked up his phone and called Frank. His voice was flat and precise. "He saw things he shouldn't have seen."