Chapter 127: Get The Sniper
Sandra’s POV
My head pounds with a blinding headache as if a thousand drums are beating inside my skull. My vision is blurred, the world around me reduced to a haze of shadow and pain. Slowly, I force myself to raise my head from the cold, hard floor. I can barely make out the figure of a man seated in a chair just a few feet away from me, his silhouette sharp against the dim light of this dark, cavernous place.
The chair he’s sitting on is simple—a study chair—but there’s something ominous about how he occupies it. The entire place feels like a warehouse, vast and empty, with darkness stretching into every corner, threatening to swallow me whole. The air is thick with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the metallic tang of blood—my blood.
“You are Sandra Puppet?”
His voice is calm, unnervingly so. There’s no malice, no anger—just a detached, almost clinical curiosity. It’s as if he’s asking my name to confirm something he already knows. I blink, trying to clear my vision, and manage to focus on him. His demeanor is composed, almost casual, as he sits there, waiting for my response.
“Yes. Why did you do this to me?” My voice trembles, but there’s a thread of defiance in it. I’m scared, more than I’ve ever been, but the calmness in his voice gives me the courage to ask.
As the words leave my lips, my vision clears a bit more, and I can finally see his face. He’s dressed entirely in white—a crisp suit, a matching tie, and a fedora perched neatly on his head. His lips curl around a cigar, the smoke lazily drifting upwards.
His polished black shoes gleam in the dim light, and something about the way he holds himself tells me that this man is used to being in control. He’s the boss— the one who holds my fate in his hands.
“Why do you want to possess a gun against Matriarch Alessandra?” he asks suddenly, his tone unchanged.
The question catches me off guard. I swallow hard, forcing myself to think clearly. I can’t give away my plans, not to him. Not to anyone. “Not until I know who you are first,” I say, my voice steadier this time.
His reaction is unexpected. He laughs—a deep, rumbling sound that echoes through the empty warehouse. It’s a laugh that chills me to the bone, full of amusement but devoid of any warmth. It’s as if I’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and he can’t help but indulge in it.
The laughter stops as abruptly as it began. His expression shifts back to that same unsettling calmness, and he snaps his fingers. The sharp sound reverberates in the silence, and almost immediately, the door swings open.
A man steps in, his presence dominating the room. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and menacing. He’s dressed in a sleeveless shirt, and his face is partially hidden behind a red scarf. In his hands, he carries a long gun—an AK-47, if I’m not mistaken. The way he grips it so casually yet so purposefully, makes my heart race.
“Boss,” the man says, bowing slightly as he addresses the one in white.
The man in white rises from his chair, moving with a grace that belies the danger he represents. He begins to pace around me, his steps slow, deliberate.
“This woman wants to know who I am. Please, tell her who I am,” he says, his voice still calm, almost mocking. His lips curl into a smirk, and I watch as the man with the AK-47 drops the gun to the floor with a thud. He cracks his neck and knuckles, his eyes locking onto mine with a look that makes my blood run cold.
My heart sinks. I know what’s coming, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The man steps forward, each step sending a tremor of fear through my body. He reaches me, his presence overwhelming, and then...
“Slap!” The sound of his hand meeting my cheek echoes through the warehouse. The force of it snaps my head to the side, pain exploding across my face. Before I can recover, he delivers three quick jabs to my stomach, each punch driving the air from my lungs. I gasp, choking on the blood that rises in my throat, and collapse to the floor, retching.
“Do you still want to know who I am?” The man in white asks again, his voice devoid of any emotion. I can’t answer. The pain is too much, and I’m struggling just to breathe. Every breath is a battle, every movement an agony.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, snapping his fingers once more. The man who hit me bows to him, retrieves his gun, and stands rigidly behind him like a sentinel.
“Sandra Puppet, we have a task for you, and if you fail, you’re as good as dead,” the man begins suddenly, his tone now carrying a weight of finality.
“They say the enemy of my enemy is my friend. The only reason you’re still breathing is that we share a common enemy—Matriarch Alessandra. The woman you came here to buy a gun to kill is also our enemy.”
His words hang in the air, and I can hardly process them through the pain and fear gripping me.
The man in white reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a stack of photographs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. They slide across the concrete, coming to rest a few inches away from me.
The photos are of Alessandra. In one, she’s shaking hands with a man in a tailored suit; in another, she’s seated in a sleek car, her expression cold and calculating.
“You see this woman, Matriarch Alessandra?” the man continues. “She doesn’t know how to mind her own business. The media might paint her as meek, but she’s a troublemaker through and through. She’s bought out the organization that’s been sustaining me and my family and countered every business deal that was supposed to be mine.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. I can hear the bitterness in his voice, the deep-seated hatred he harbors for Alessandra. It mirrors my own, and for a moment, I feel a twisted sense of kinship with this man.
“We’ve been planning to take her down for a while, but her security is tight. We needed a way in, and then you came along, bold enough to want to buy a rifle to take her out. You’ve got guts; I’ll give you that. So, we’ll give you the gun—for free. Take down Alessandra, and you’re free to go. Fail, and you die.”
He delivers the ultimatum with a casualness that makes my skin crawl. There’s no doubt in his mind that I’ll comply—he’s already decided my fate. But what choice do I have? I can’t fight them, not in my condition. And running isn’t an option. Not with them watching my every move.
“You’re confident, and I think you’re smart. I know you’ll do the right thing,” the man says, blowing a long stream of smoke from his mouth. He snaps his fingers again, and another man enters the room, carrying a sniper rifle.
The weapon is sleek and deadly, and he tosses it at my feet with a heavy thud.
“We trust you, Sandra Puppet. Don’t betray our trust,” the man in white says one last time before rising from his chair.
He turns, his white suit glowing faintly in the dim light as he walks away, his men following in his wake. The warehouse door slams shut behind them, leaving me alone in the cold, empty space. Alone with the weight of the task they’ve thrust upon me.
I look down at the sniper rifle, my hands trembling as I reach for it. This is it. My one chance to take down Alessandra, to end the nightmare she’s brought into my life. But as I grip the cold metal of the rifle, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a deal with the devil.