Chapter 145

Chapter 145
Isabella's POV

I sat half-reclined on the second-floor sitting room sofa, one hand resting on the curve of my belly, the other gripping the encrypted communicator Gabriel had left me before departing. The device transmitted real-time audio from inside the church—Marcus's interrogation, Quincy's cold responses, and footsteps echoing through the cavernous space, making my chest grow tighter and tighter.

The baby kicked again, harder than usual. I drew a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my fingertips trembled anyway. This wasn't fear—it was a premonition, an instinct that the storm was about to break.

Then the communicator erupted with sound.

An explosion—dull, violent, the blast making my eardrums ring even though I wasn't there. Stone crashing down in thunderous waves, men shouting, gunfire crackling like rainfall. I jerked upright, the communicator nearly slipping from my grasp. My eyes locked on the device, desperate to hear Gabriel's voice, but all I got was chaotic noise and fragmented screaming.

"Gabriel..." The word came out as barely a whisper, swallowed by the empty room.

Then gunfire erupted inside the manor itself.

Close. So close I could hear bullets punching into walls with dull thuds, guards' boots pounding urgently, the sharp clatter of metal on metal. My heart seized. Instinctively, my hand reached behind the sofa for the handgun Gabriel had insisted I keep there.

I'd never imagined I'd actually need it.

I rose slowly, awkwardly, my pregnant body making every movement clumsy. My left hand braced against the sofa back for balance while my right gripped the gun. My gaze fixed on the door—that thick oak barrier, currently shut tight, a sliver of hallway light bleeding through the gap beneath.

The gunfire outside gradually died. What replaced it was worse: a silence that felt suffocating.

I held my breath. All I could hear was my own heartbeat hammering like a drum, blood rushing through my veins. The baby shifted inside me, a gentle rolling motion, as if reminding me: "I'm still here." I clenched my jaw, raised the gun, aimed it squarely at the door.

The doorknob began to turn.

The door swung open without a sound—not the violent crash of a guard forcing entry, but careful, practiced. The gap widened slowly, deliberately, without so much as a creak. A figure slipped inside, moving with the fluid precision of a predator. Black tactical gear covered him head to toe, a mask concealing everything but cold, assessing eyes.

His right hand held a suppressed pistol, the barrel already tracking toward me.

I didn't scream. Didn't back away. I stood my ground, both hands on the gun, barrel steady on his center mass. My breathing was shallow, almost silent.

The intruder clearly hadn't expected resistance. He froze for a fraction of a second—just one second of hesitation.

I squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot detonated in the enclosed space, so loud my ears rang instantly. The bullet struck him square in the chest, black fabric blooming red as blood soaked through. The impact staggered him backward into the doorframe with a sickening thud.

He stared down at the wound in disbelief, blood seeping between his fingers as he pressed his hand to his chest. Then he looked up at me—through the gap in his mask, his eyes held shock, confusion, even something like absurd recognition. The pregnant woman who should have been easy prey had just put a bullet in him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only managed a wet, choking gasp. A heartbeat later, his body went limp, collapsing to the floor in a heavy, final crash.

The room fell into dead silence.

The gunshot's echo still hung in the air. My arms were still raised, the barrel still smoking faintly. My lips pressed into a thin line as I stared at the body, at the pool of blood spreading slowly across the hardwood. The baby kicked again, this time urgent, anxious, as if asking: "Mama, what just happened?"

Slowly, I lowered the gun. My arms ached from holding the weapon steady for so long.

Before I could process what had just happened, the door slammed open and three armed guards burst in, guns sweeping the room in synchronized arcs. When they took in the scene—the corpse on the floor, me standing there with the smoking gun still in my hand—every one of them froze.

The lead guard was one of Aiden's most trusted men, named Walter. He scanned the room quickly, confirmed there were no other threats, then activated his comm with clipped efficiency.

"Boss, the manor just took a hit. Multiple hostiles breached the perimeter. All neutralized. One made it to Mrs. Sullivan's room..." He paused, his gaze flicking to me, and something like stunned respect crept into his voice. "Neutralized by Mrs. Sullivan herself. Situation secure."

Gabriel's voice crackled through, low and taut as a drawn bowstring: "Is she hurt?"

"No, sir." Walter's tone was careful. "Mrs. Sullivan is... very composed."

A beat of silence. Then Gabriel's voice came again: "I'm coming back. Now."

The line went dead.

Walter pocketed the comm and approached me, his expression softening slightly. "Ma'am, are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"

I shook my head, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "I'm fine."

Walter nodded, gesturing for the other guards to deal with the body. He glanced at the dead man, then back at me, something complicated flickering in his eyes.

"Boss will be here soon," he said quietly. "Until then, please stay put. We're doubling security."

I didn't answer. Instead, I walked to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains at the darkness beyond. I knew Gabriel was racing back, knew something had gone catastrophically wrong at the church—the explosion over the comm, the chaos, the screaming, Quincy's name... All those fragments swirled in my mind, trying to form a coherent picture.

Time seemed to stretch, each minute feeling like an hour, until the roar of engines finally shattered the manor's silence. I stood at the second-floor window, watching the convoy of black cars tear through the gates, headlights slicing harsh beams through the night. My pulse kicked up again, fingers clenching the curtain so hard my knuckles went white.

The lead vehicle screeched to a halt. Gabriel emerged. He was still in full tactical gear, dust and blood streaking the black fabric, his face a mask like the sky before a storm. He looked up, his gaze locking onto my window with unerring precision—even through the curtain, he knew exactly where I was.

I released the fabric, turned, and hurried out of the room. My steps were quick, almost too quick for someone five months pregnant, but I didn't care. The guards trailing me struggled to keep pace. All I could think was: I need to see him, need to hear him say it's over.

By the time I reached the ground-floor foyer, Gabriel was crossing the threshold.

Our eyes met. He strode toward me, stopping abruptly two steps away. His gaze dropped to my belly, his jaw tightening: "You're not hurt?"

I nodded, my own voice unsteady: "I'm fine. The baby's fine." I hesitated, then forced the question out. "What happened at the church?"

Gabriel was silent for a long moment, his eyes still fixed on my stomach as if confirming for himself that our daughter was truly unharmed. Finally, he spoke slowly: "There was an incident. Marcus is dead. His own men betrayed him and killed him. Quincy... is buried under the rubble. My men are digging him out now."

My heart sank. "Is he... still alive?"

"I don't know." Gabriel's tone was ice-cold.

His phone buzzed immediately. He answered, pressing it to his ear. Aiden's voice crackled through, tight with stress:

"Boss, we found him. He's breathing, but it's bad. Multiple broken ribs, his right leg's crushed under a stone block, severe blood loss. We're rushing him to the hospital now. The doctors say it's not looking good."

Gabriel's fingers tightened, "I don't care what it costs. Use every resource we have. Get the best surgeons. I want him alive."

"Understood." Aiden's voice was grim. "Boss, there's something else. We found Sergei's body in the rubble—he didn't make it out. Looks like Marcus's men killed him, but we recovered a document from his jacket: a list of remaining Donovan loyalists and their locations."

Gabriel's eyes sharpened like a blade: "Photograph it and send it to me. Then lock down the site. No one gets near."

"Yes, sir."

The call ended. Gabriel pocketed the phone and turned back to me. My face must have been pale, because I could feel my lips trembling—not just for Quincy, but for what I knew was coming next. The "cleanup" Gabriel had promised.

Gabriel reached out, his hand closing gently around mine. His palm was warm, rough, grounding. "Don't worry. Quincy will pull through. And the Donovan remnants will be completely wiped out." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "From now on, no one will ever threaten you or our daughter again."

"I won't let anyone hurt you. Not ever again."

His promise settled over me like a blanket—protective and suffocating all at once. I wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that the nightmare was finally ending, but the tremor in my fingers reminded me how close death had come tonight.

Late into the night, the manor settled into an uneasy quiet. I lay in bed, curled on my side, one hand resting on my belly, feeling the baby's occasional flutter. Gabriel sat on the edge of the mattress, tablet in hand, the screen displaying the document Aiden had sent—densely packed names, map coordinates.

His brow was furrowed, his finger swiping through the data with mechanical precision. His eyes were colder than I'd ever seen them.

"Gabriel." My voice was soft.

He looked up immediately, the hardness in his expression melting away. "What's wrong? Are you uncomfortable?"

"No." I shook my head. "I just... wanted to ask about Quincy."

Gabriel set the tablet aside, turning to face me fully. "The doctors say he's stable for now, but he's not out of danger yet. Four broken ribs, his right leg needs surgery, massive blood loss... but he's a fighter. He'll make it."

Relief washed over me, loosening the knot in my chest. "That's good. When are you going to... deal with the rest of them?"

Gabriel's gaze turned sharp again, lethal. "Tomorrow. Aiden's already coordinating. I'll lead the operation myself. We're going to wipe out every last Donovan loyalist. Leave no one standing." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but every word dripped with lethal intent.

"Marcus is dead. The Donovan family ends with him."

Outside, the night was deep and still. The manor's lights flickered like a lone island in the darkness, sheltering the people within.