Chapter 114
Russell's POV
Boris screamed and went down, both hands clutching his thigh as blood sprayed between his fingers. The crimson pool spread rapidly across the floor. His glasses flew off and shattered against the table leg.
I held the still-smoking pistol, barrel now aimed at Boris's head, my voice terrifyingly calm: "I said I'm not asking for opinions."
I slowly rotated the gun, sweeping it across every face present. Some stared at the table, fingers white-knuckled on armrests. Others avoided my gaze entirely, sweat beading on their foreheads. A few leaned back as if trying to merge with their chairs.
Boris moaned on the floor, his sounds growing weaker with blood loss. The air filled with the mingled stench of blood and gunpowder, nauseating.
I set the gun on the table, knuckles still white. "Does anyone else have concerns? Speak up now. I promise the next bullet won't aim so low."
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Only Boris's faint moans and suppressed fear remained in the room. The wall clock ticked on, each second like a hammer blow against taut nerves.
I surveyed the room, confirming everyone understood my position. "Three days from now, we launch a full assault on Sullivan. Objective—the heads of Gabriel and Isabella."
"We mobilize everything." My voice held calm madness. "Every security detail from every facility. Every man from every transport line. Even the bodyguards at our legitimate fronts. Everyone."
I gestured to the list on the table. "This is the Montague family's entire armed force. In three days, I'm throwing all of it into battle."
Silence stretched for nearly a minute. Everyone weighed Boris's blood pool against their own fate. A few opened their mouths, then ultimately closed them.
"I support this decision. If needed, I can participate in this fight." A clear female voice cut through the tension. All eyes turned to the doorway where Olivia stood in an impeccably tailored black suit, makeup flawless, eyes slightly red.
She walked into the room, heels striking a crisp rhythm against the floor. Passing Boris, her gaze lingered briefly on the blood pool before moving on.
I studied my daughter, expression complex. I'd never truly paid attention to Olivia, always favoring Adrian. But now she was the only one voicing support amid everyone's silence.
"Do you understand what you're saying?" My voice carried challenge. "This war will be dangerous. I can't guarantee everyone survives. Including you."
Olivia stopped beside the table, hands folded, voice trembling slightly yet clear: "Adrian was my brother. The person closest to me in this world." She paused, eyes glistening.
Olivia drew a deep breath, voice strengthening: "I can coordinate the mobilization. I know every facility head, every transport line, every contact point with Donovan. Father, let me prove myself."
I fell silent for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Very well. Olivia, you'll serve as operations coordinator, handling personnel deployment, weapons allocation, and intelligence gathering."
"Yes, Father." Olivia gave a small bow.
I addressed the room: "Sawyer, handle East Side and North Side attack routes. Dmitri, take the West Side team for flanking. Everyone else reports to Olivia for unified coordination."
I paused, voice cold as ice: "Remember—only one objective. Kill Gabriel and Isabella. Whoever succeeds becomes a family hero. Whoever fails—" My gaze swept to Boris, nearly unconscious from blood loss. "You know the consequences."
"Yes, Boss!" The response came tight with fear.
I waved dismissively: "Get Boris to a hospital. Don't let him die. The rest of you, start preparations. Three days from now, I want to see Gabriel kneeling at my son's grave."
Core members filed out, two half-carrying Boris between them, leaving a blood trail on the floor. Soon only Olivia and I remained.
Olivia approached me, voice thick with emotion: "Father, I know you always valued Adrian more. Since childhood, you taught him negotiation, management, how to survive. And me—I was just the dispensable daughter."
Tears slid down her cheeks. "But now Adrian's gone. I'll prove I'm not inferior to him. I'll make those who killed him pay. I'll show you your daughter can be your pride too."
I regarded her in silence, surprise and reassessment flickering in my eyes. Finally I raised a hand to her shoulder, the gesture awkward and clumsy, as if I'd forgotten how to show paternal affection.
"Olivia, you've grown up." I spoke quietly, tone carrying rare approval. "Adrian would be proud of you."
"I'll show you." Olivia lowered her head.
I turned to face the window. "Go prepare. This operation cannot fail. I've already lost my son. I can't lose this war too."
"Yes, Father." Olivia retreated from the study, closing the door softly.
—
Third person's POV
The moment the door clicked shut, Olivia rigid composure finally crumbled. She leaned against the corridor wall, legs weak, palms slick with cold sweat. Every second in that room had been like walking a tightrope over an abyss. Boris's screams and the smell of blood still echoed in her mind.
But she'd done it.
She'd proven herself before everyone, earned her father's acknowledgment, secured her position as operations coordinator. With Adrian dead, she was now the sole heir. The thought brought not just grief but a dark thrill she didn't dare examine closely.
She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to regain composure. This wasn't the time for weakness. She had more important work ahead.
Leaving the corridor, Olivia slipped quietly into an unused storage room filled with old furniture and dust-covered decorations. She locked the door, hands trembling as she pulled out her phone and dialed Marcus.
Marcus answered on the second ring.
"How did it go?" His voice carried lazy amusement, as if inquiring about weather rather than a war that would determine dozens of lives.
Olivia kept her voice low, glancing nervously at the door. "Three days. Full assault on Sullivan's estate. Father appointed me operations coordinator. I'll handle all personnel deployment and weapons allocation."
"Excellent." Marcus's tone warmed with approval, like a teacher praising a student. "I knew you could do it. How did you perform in the meeting?"
Olivia closed her eyes, Boris's blood-soaked form flashing in her mind. "Father shot someone who questioned the plan. Everyone was too terrified to speak. I stood up and voiced support."
"Perfect." Marcus's soft laugh sent chills down her spine. "Your father must be very moved. Losing his son, yet discovering his daughter's loyalty. How touching."
Olivia bit her lip, eyes stinging. "Marcus, my brother—was it really you—"
"It was an accident." Marcus cut her off, voice gentle but brooking no argument. "Darling, I've explained this. The bomb's yield exceeded projections. We only meant to injure him. But the result—it's not necessarily bad for you, is it?"
Olivia's grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white.
"You're the sole heir now," Marcus continued, words honey-sweet. "When this war ends, the Montague family will be yours. You won't be the overlooked daughter anymore. You'll be the one in control. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
Olivia forced herself to breathe steadily, pushing down the nausea. She told herself Adrian's death was just an accident. She was simply... seizing an opportunity.
"You promised to help me," she said, voice wavering. "You said if I cooperated, you'd help me become family head."
"Of course." Marcus's tone shifted to something more serious. "But you need to play your part perfectly. Show your father grief and determination. Prove you're worthy of leading the family. Can you do that?"
"Yes." The word came out stronger than she felt.
"Good girl." Marcus's approval felt like both warm blanket and cold blade. "Three days. Make sure everything proceeds according to plan. When Sullivan and Montague tear each other apart, we'll be the ones left standing."
The call ended. Olivia stood in darkness, phone clutched to her chest, trying to reconcile the woman who'd just condemned dozens to death with the girl who'd once dreamed of escape.
She straightened her spine, wiped away tears, and checked her reflection in a dust-covered mirror. The face looking back showed perfectly calibrated grief and steel resolve—exactly the mask she needed.
When she emerged from the storage room, the mask fit seamlessly.