Chapter 123
Marcus's POV
I leaned against the modified armored vehicle, cigar burning slowly between my fingers, smoke gradually dissipating into the night wind. Felix's calm and precise report came through my earpiece: "Northwest main force hit the landmine array, three armored vehicles flipped, infantry casualties over fifty percent."
He paused, then added: "Main gate trap activated, retreat corridor turned into a slaughterhouse. Boris called for backup, got screamed down by Russell."
I exhaled a stream of smoke, satisfaction curving my lips. This show was even more spectacular than I'd anticipated—Russell, his mind clouded by grief, charging headlong into Gabriel's meticulously laid traps with three hundred men, completely oblivious to the fact he was marching toward death.
Exactly what I wanted. Let Russell serve as cannon fodder, grinding himself down against Gabriel's defenses while I waited quietly at a safe distance for both sides to bleed out their last drop, then sweep in with fresh troops to claim the spoils of war.
Russell still had over three hundred men—even facing Gabriel's fortress, dragging this out for ten or twenty hours shouldn't be a problem. By then, with both sides exhausted, I could swagger in and swallow Montague and Sullivan territories whole.
Perfect plan.
"Boss, Russell's armored vehicle took a direct rocket hit." Felix's voice suddenly tightened.
My cigar froze mid-air. What? Already?
I stared at the real-time casualty data jumping across my phone screen—Montague forces deployed: 312 men, current survivors under 70, battle duration: 2 hours 47 minutes.
Damn it.
"That grief-blinded idiot." I muttered, crushing the cigar against the car door. "Couldn't even last three hours? Gabriel's traps are more vicious than I calculated..."
My mind raced through rapid calculations: Russell's swift collapse meant Gabriel was virtually unscathed, my "reap the benefits" strategy completely bankrupt. Worse, I'd promised Russell weapons and logistical support—now with Montague shredded, every faction would point fingers at the Donovan family as the puppet master behind it all.
Damn, damn, damn.
I pulled out my phone, preparing to contact Olivia. Though she was stupid, as long as she lived, with Montague bloodline, I could legitimately take over Russell's remnants as her fiancé.
My finger had just touched the screen when the phone suddenly vibrated.
Caller ID: Father.
My heart plummeted.
I answered, his roar nearly deafening: "Where are you?"
Suppressing my fury, I forced my voice steady: "I'm in the east district, handling some—"
"Shut up!" Father cut me off brutally. "You unilaterally provoked war between Montague and Sullivan, dragging the Donovan family into the crossfire! Every faction's watching us now—do you have any idea what kind of disaster you've created?!"
I gripped the phone, knuckles white. Of course I knew. But if I didn't seize this opportunity to absorb Montague and Sullivan, when would the Donovan family truly control the entire underground world? Father's timidity was exactly why we'd stagnated all these years.
I attempted to explain: "Father, I did this for the family's interests. Once Russell and Gabriel destroy each other, we can—"
"I told you to shut up!" Father's roar grew increasingly hysterical. "You think I don't know your schemes? Wanted to use Russell to test Gabriel, then profit from the chaos? But did you consider that Gabriel isn't some grief-crazed idiot like Russell! He's already traced this back to your manipulation—you think he'll let the Donovan family walk away?"
I clenched my jaw, nails nearly embedding in my palm.
Yes, Gabriel definitely knew I orchestrated this. But so what? The Donovan family had operated in the underground world for three generations, our resources and connections rivaling Sullivan's—why should we grovel before him?
"Father, we can completely—"
"Return immediately!" Father's tone brooked no argument. "The family isn't ready to confront Sullivan. Get back to the manor, shut down every covert operation you're running, or I'll personally strip you of the heir position!"
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply for three seconds, desperately suppressing the churning fury.
"I understand, Father." My voice turned cold as a morgue corpse.
"You'd better truly understand." Father's cold laugh cut through. "Don't think you're my only son—I've got several bastards waiting to take your place. If you dare act independently again, I won't hesitate to replace you with someone more obedient."
Beep—the call disconnected.
I stared at the phone screen, then three seconds later hurled it viciously at the car window. Glass shattered on impact, spiderweb cracks gleaming eerily in the darkness.
The driver in the front seat flinched but didn't dare turn around.
I leaned against the car door, chest heaving violently. Every word Father spoke cut like a knife—"several bastards," "someone more obedient."
I'd grown up under these threats: poor exam results, he'd say "your brother's much smarter"; failed business negotiations, he'd say "maybe I should let your half-brother try." I thought entering entertainment, becoming a world-class star, whitewashing the family image would prove my worth.
But in the end, Father still treated me like a chess piece he could discard at any moment.
"Father..." I murmured, lips twisting into a smile. "You think a few bastards can threaten me?"
I pulled out my backup phone, rage crystallizing into cold calculation as I dialed Felix's encrypted number. Three rings, then connection.
"Boss?"
"What's the situation now?" I asked.
"Russell's armored vehicle destroyed, he crawled out severely wounded but got surrounded by Gabriel's men. Montague survivors under fifty, basically combat ineffective." Felix paused. "Also... Olivia's infiltration team signal cut out ten minutes ago."
I drummed my fingers twice on the steering wheel.
"Cut out?"
"Yes, we tried contacting her communicator, only static. Last positioning showed her team entering the manor's west corridor, then all signals disappeared." Felix's tone carried hesitation. "Boss, should I send reinforcements?"
I fell silent for several seconds.
Olivia's face surfaced in my mind—that exquisite face might already have a bullet through it, or be lying in some corridor's blood pool, twitching like a dying dog.
"That idiot..." I cursed under my breath.
But cursing aside, I had to make a choice: risk provoking Gabriel by storming the manor to rescue her, or abandon Olivia entirely?