Chapter 111
Russell's POV
Three in the morning. Russell stood in the family estate's war room, hands pressed hard against the solid wood table, knuckles white from the pressure. Satellite photos, intelligence files, and surveillance screenshots covered nearly every inch of the surface, each one telling the same brutal story—Gabriel's counterattack had come fast and hard, so fast he'd had no time to defend.
He stared fixedly at the photos on the table, rage churning in his chest like molten lava. The aerial shot of the San Victor warehouse showed what had once been a heavily fortified three-story structure now reduced to nothing but charred ruins.
The reinforced concrete had been blown to pieces, twisted steel beams jutting toward the sky like the ribs of some dead beast, the ground pocked with craters still glowing faintly with dying embers. The blast had torn open the earth around the warehouse, exposing black soil beneath.
Russell picked up another image—a surveillance still from the lake district wine cellar. Four figures in black emerged from a sewer maintenance access, moving swiftly and professionally, using directional explosives to breach the vault's outer wall in three minutes.
The flash of detonation blazed white-hot in the footage, then the screen dissolved into static—an electromagnetic pulse had fried every electronic system. By the time security arrived, the vault had been gutted, leaving only debris and a gaping black hole blown through the wall.
"Boss..." The scarred lieutenant stood nearby, voice pitched extremely low as though afraid to disturb this enraged beast. "Latest update—two weapons transfer stations in the north district were also hit. Sullivan's people planted tracking devices and delayed charges in our shipment crates. Once the goods were distributed to various outposts, they triggered simultaneous detonations..."
Russell's head snapped up, eyes bloodshot, ringed with dark circles from the sleepless night. His face had gone pale as paper, lips pressed into a bloodless line, the veins at his temples bulging with fury.
"Casualties." His voice came out hoarse.
"San Victor warehouse—all thirty-two guards dead. Fifteen killed instantly in the blast, the rest died in secondary explosions while trying to extinguish fires." The scarred man flipped through his file, voice dropping lower. "Lake district cellar—eight security personnel injured, two critical. North district transfer stations—nineteen dead, six missing and presumed lost. Combined with other outposts, we've lost over seventy men in twenty-four hours..."
Russell's fist slammed down on the table with a dull, resonant thud. The whiskey glass jumped, amber liquid sloshing over the rim and bleeding across the papers. Cigarette butts scattered from the ashtray, ash drifting through the air.
"Seventy men!" Russell's voice cracked into a roar edged with madness. "He killed seventy of my people! Blew up five of my outposts! Stole ten billion dollars! This is Gabriel's answer!"
He shoved back violently, the chair crashing into the wall with a screech. He paced the room, each footfall heavy enough to make the floorboards groan. His breathing came harsh and ragged, chest heaving, suit jacket hanging open, tie askew, collar unbuttoned to reveal skin flushed red with rage.
"Does he think this will make me back down?" Russell stopped abruptly, spinning to face the scarred lieutenant, mouth twisting into something grotesque. "Does he think destroying a few warehouses and killing a few dozen men will balance the scales for murdering my son?"
The scarred man kept his head down, silent, unwilling to meet Russell's eyes.
Russell moved to the window, staring out at the distant city lights scattered across the darkness like cold, unblinking eyes. In his mind's eye, Adrian's face kept surfacing—that bright young man, his only son, now reduced to nothing but a pile of charred ash and a single deformed ring.
"Adrian..." Russell murmured, voice thick with suppressed anguish. "My boy..."
He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, forced himself toward calm. Anger and grief were useless. What he needed was clarity and strategy. Gabriel could destroy his warehouses, steal his gold, slaughter his men—all of that could be rebuilt. But there was one thing Sullivan would fight to the death to protect—
That woman named Isabella.
Russell's eyes snapped open, gaze sharpening into something cold and calculating. He returned to the table, picked up a photograph—Isabella's profile shot taken outside the small-town bookstore. She wore a simple cotton shirt and jeans, no makeup, arms full of old books, face lit with a quiet smile. She looked ordinary and harmless, nothing like a woman worth Gabriel's absolute protection.
But Russell knew better. This woman had become Sullivan's only vulnerability.
"Pass the word," Russell said, voice dropping into ice-edged steel. "Mobilize every available operative. Hire the best killers money can buy. Acquire the finest weapons. Whatever it costs—that woman dies."
The scarred man lifted his head, hesitation flickering across his features. "Boss, Sullivan's estate is heavily fortified. A direct assault would cost us dearly..."
"I don't care!" Russell cut him off, voice rising with manic intensity. "Whatever methods you use—ambush, infiltration, sniper fire, blow the whole goddamn estate to rubble with rocket launchers! I want one result and one result only—Isabella's corpse!"
He stepped forward, grabbed the man by his collar, yanked him close. "I want Gabriel to know what it feels like to lose someone! I want him on his knees in front of that woman's body, drowning in regret for ever touching my son! I want him to understand that crossing Russell means paying in blood!"
The scarred lieutenant stood frozen under Russell's wild-eyed stare, then finally nodded after several seconds. "Understood, boss. I'll arrange it immediately."
Russell released him. The man staggered back, straightened his rumpled collar, and hurried from the war room.
Silence settled over the space once more. Russell returned to the table, drained the whiskey glass in one swallow. The burn in his throat was nothing compared to the rage and grief consuming him.
His gaze fell on the framed photograph at the corner of the desk—Adrian's memorial portrait. Russell's fingers traced the glass, leaving a smudged fingerprint.
"Wait for me, my boy," he whispered, voice taking on a twisted sort of tenderness. "Soon I'll make the Sullivan family pay in blood. I'll kill that woman myself and deliver her corpse to Gabriel's doorstep so he understands the agony of losing what matters most."
Through the window, faint light began to stain the horizon—dawn approaching. But for Russell, this was only the beginning of another blood-soaked battle.
---
Isabella's POV
The convoy tore through the night, engines roaring against the silence of empty streets. I sat in the back seat, watching the scenery blur past—streetlights streaking into smudged trails of light, buildings reduced to shadowy silhouettes in the darkness.
My fingers traced absent patterns against my jeans, feeling the rough weave and softness of worn fabric. This real tactile sensation let me grasp something tangible amid the surreal danger.
The car interior was quiet except for the low rumble of the engine and the whisper of tires against asphalt. Occasionally another vehicle passed, headlights briefly illuminating the cabin before plunging us back into darkness. The quiet didn't relax me—it wound my nerves tighter, like a string pulled taut enough to snap.
Gabriel sat beside me, long fingers resting on his knee in a posture that looked casual but radiated coiled tension. His profile shifted between light and shadow as we passed under streetlamps, green eyes fixed ahead, holding something I couldn't read.
"Afraid?" he asked suddenly, voice low.
I jerked my head toward him, pulse quickening inexplicably. He didn't look at me, gaze still trained forward, but I could feel his attention shift like an invisible spotlight turning to illuminate me completely.
Afraid?
The question echoed in my mind. Afraid of Russell's retaliation? The unknown dangers ahead? The killers who might pull their triggers at any moment? Or afraid of how thoroughly I'd stepped into this dark world, how there might be no path back to that quiet life of repairing old books?
My fingers curled tight, nails digging into the denim. Of course I was afraid. From the moment Gabriel told me Russell had put a hundred-million-dollar bounty on my head, fear had wrapped around my heart like a cold serpent, making every breath ache.
But I also understood—fear was useless. Running was useless. In this world, the weak got devoured. Only the strong survived.
"Afraid of what?" I shot back, voice steadier than expected, carrying an edge of challenge I hadn't meant to reveal.
Gabriel finally turned to look at me, green eyes gleaming with something complex in the darkness. He studied me for several seconds, mouth quirking into the barest hint of a smile, as though my response had surprised and pleased him.
"Good," he said quietly, voice threaded with approval.
He started to say something more, but suddenly—
BOOM!!!