Chapter 113
Russell's POV
At two in the morning, my study felt suffocating, the air thick with cigar smoke and the bitterness of sleeplessness. I'd gone a full seventy-two hours without closing my eyes, bloodshot and deeply sunken, my face bearing exhaustion not from physical depletion but from the relentless churning of grief and rage.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same image surfaced—Adrian torn to shreds by a bomb, the explosion surgical in its precision, flesh and bone ripped apart in an instant.
The encrypted phone on my desk suddenly vibrated, its harsh buzz slicing through the silence. I snatched it up, knuckles white with pressure. "Talk."
Yuri's voice came through rough and strained. "Boss, the operation went sideways. We ambushed Sullivan's convoy, but twenty men went in and only I made it out alive."
My grip tightened further, the phone casing creaking. "Is Isabella dead?" I forced the name out through gritted teeth.
"No." His answer landed like a blow. "She's still alive. And Boss—she killed three of our men herself. The woman knows how to use a gun, shoots better than someone who should be cowering in the back seat."
I let out something close to an inhuman growl.
Yuri's breathing quickened. "Gabriel's got her locked down tight. At least twenty armed guards in that convoy, all elite. We underestimated what she means to him."
The room fell into brief silence. I remained motionless for several seconds, as if some internal cord had snapped. Suddenly I hurled the phone at the wall with violent force. It struck and shattered into electronic debris scattered across the floor.
But the destruction did nothing to relieve the pressure roiling in my chest. I'd put a hundred million dollar bounty on Isabella's head, deployed my best killers, coordinated the ambush down to the minute—and still she lived while my son could only rot in the ground.
I walked to the window, bracing both hands against the sill, each breath heavy and labored. Outside, moonlight stained the garden in alternating silver and shadow. That lawn had once echoed with Adrian's laughter—the little boy chasing butterflies, never crying when he fell, always getting up with a smile.
Now that boy would never come home.
And the woman responsible for my son's death still walked free under Gabriel's protection.
I muttered to myself, voice raw as sandpaper: "Not enough. The bounty's not enough. The killers aren't enough. None of it is enough."
I turned back to the desk, yanking open the bottom drawer to pull out a thick manila folder—the complete roster of Montague family armed forces. Twelve security teams, eight weapons transport lines, even the bodyguards at our legitimate business fronts, all meticulously documented.
This was my family's entire foundation, accumulated over decades.
My finger moved slowly down the list of names. Some had served me fifteen years, others had been loyal since my father's time. I knew their faces, their families, their weaknesses. And now I was about to throw them all into a war they might not survive.
I cursed Gabriel's name under my breath, each syllable dripping venom. "You think destroying a few warehouses is victory? You think keeping that woman safe means you've won?"
The firelight danced in the fireplace, casting twisted shadows across my face. I poured three fingers of whiskey and downed it in one burning swallow. The liquor seared my throat but couldn't melt the ice spreading through my veins.
I swore to the empty room in a low voice: "I'll make you pay the same price. I'll make you watch Isabella die right in front of you, exactly the way I watched Adrian get blown to pieces."
I pressed the intercom button, tone calm yet lethal: "Dmitri, summon all core members. One hour. War room. Everyone."
"Boss, it's three in the morning—"
"I don't care what time it is." I cut him off coldly. "One hour. Anyone who's late doesn't need to come back."
I released the button and sank back into my chair, gaze returning to the list. My finger traced each name again, slower this time. These men had families, children, lives of their own. But I was about to send them all into a meat grinder.
I didn't care anymore. Couldn't care. Adrian's death had hollowed out all my caution and restraint, leaving only a howling void that had to be filled with vengeance.
Outside, the night pressed heavy against the glass. The manor lay silent except for the occasional footfalls of patrol guards in the distance. I stood and returned to the window, studying my reflection in the dark glass—a face aged ten years in three days, eyes hollow and threaded with broken capillaries.
"Adrian," I said softly, my breath fogging the glass. "Dad's going to make this right. I swear it."
By three-thirty, harsh fluorescent lights blazed in the war room. Twenty-three core members had assembled, some with hastily buttoned shirts, others still blinking away sleep, but one look at my face killed any remaining drowsiness. I stood at the head of the table radiating dangerous instability, like a bomb with a fraying fuse.
The projection screen displayed satellite images of Sullivan's estate—defensive positions marked in red, potential weak points circled in yellow, Isabella's known movement patterns traced in blue. The density of security markers made it look like a military fortress.
I planted both hands on the table, leaning forward. Stubble darkened my jaw, eyes glinting with fevered light that made several men shift uncomfortably. "One hour ago, the operation to eliminate Isabella failed. Twenty men deployed. Only one survived."
Silence crashed down like a hammer.
"Not only is she alive," I continued, voice dropping to barely audible, "she personally killed three of our people. Gabriel protects her like his own beating heart."
I straightened, gaze sweeping every face. "I spent one hundred million dollars on her head. Sent our best killers. And what did we get?" My voice suddenly spiked. "Failure! Complete failure!"
My fist slammed down hard, making the coffee cups jump. Two men visibly flinched.
"Gabriel destroyed five of our facilities. Blew up our weapons cache. Killed seventy-two of our brothers." My voice dropped again, each word laden with killing intent. "Most importantly, he used a bomb to blow my son to pieces."
I stood fully upright, shoulders squared. "Now I'm going to make him pay the same price."
Sawyer, who ran East Side operations, spoke up carefully: "Boss, I understand your grief. But we just lost five facilities. The weapons cache is gone. Our manpower's been cut in half. If we launch a counteroffensive now, our chances of success—"
"I'm not asking for opinions." My interruption came cold and sharp as a blade.
Sawyer clenched his jaw and fell silent. The oppressive atmosphere in the room intensified, like air before a thunderstorm.
Boris, our logistics coordinator—a tall, thin man whose wire-rimmed glasses made him look more accountant than gangster—pushed up his spectacles and spoke with obvious reluctance: "Boss, I contacted Donovan. Marcus agreed to provide fifty men and a weapons shipment. But that level of support is nowhere near enough to breach Sullivan's defensive systems. We need more—"
The gunshot exploded through the room.