Chapter 41

Chapter 41
Derek’s POV

The storm outside hadn’t stopped since midnight.
It was the kind of rain that didn’t wash anything clean—just dragged the dirt further into the ground.

I sat by the window of my father’s villa, the same one that had once echoed with laughter and piano notes, now echoing with the quiet hum of security radios and the dull clink of weapons being checked.

Sylvia was asleep upstairs. Her breathing—soft, uneven—had become the only sound that reminded me I still had something to lose.

Her mother hadn’t spoken to me since the confrontation. She avoided my eyes at breakfast, her voice clipped when she addressed her husband, her face pale with the quiet devastation of a woman whose home had become a battlefield without warning.

But I couldn’t focus on her grief. The message from my men still burned in my head.

> Rival awakened.

It meant someone had finally moved.
And that someone had found me.

By dawn, the house had changed.

The villa’s open halls now buzzed with low male voices, the smell of gun oil and tension thick in the air. Matteo was the first to speak when he entered my study, his face hard beneath the morning shadow.

“Boss,” he said, placing a tablet in front of me. “We’ve got confirmation. The traitor was feeding intel to the east syndicate for weeks.”

I didn’t look up yet. “Names.”

He hesitated. “We think it’s Vito.”

I froze, the pen slipping from my hand.
Vito. My right hand. The man I trusted to guard my shipments, my secrets—Sylvia.

“You think?” I said, my voice quieter than I felt.

Matteo nodded grimly. “There’s footage from the docks. Someone in his car was spotted handing a flash drive to an unknown courier. The plates match his.”

My pulse slowed. The same icy calm that came before a kill.

“Where is he now?”

“On his way here,” Matteo said. “He claims he’s bringing you something important.”

Of course he is, I thought. That’s how betrayal always walks in—disguised as loyalty.

When Vito arrived, the storm had returned with vengeance, lightning cracking through the Moroccan sky like a warning.

He stepped into the villa soaked, panting, his usual grin gone. “Boss,” he said, breathless. “We’ve been compromised. Someone on the inside—”

“Save it,” I interrupted.

His eyes flicked to Matteo, then back to me. “What?”

I rose from behind the desk slowly. “You were the inside, Vito.”

For a moment, confusion clouded his expression—then guilt flickered there, small but sharp.
He took a half step back. “You don’t understand—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The room fell silent except for the ticking of the clock and the growl of thunder.

Vito’s hand twitched toward his belt. Matteo moved before he could finish the motion.

The first shot cracked like thunder itself.
Then everything went to hell.

Gunfire tore through the villa.
Windows shattered. Furniture exploded into splinters.

Matteo dragged me toward cover as bullets screamed through the hallway. Vito’s men—how many of them had been inside all along?—stormed through the front gate, faces masked, rifles raised.

I shouted over the chaos, “Get Sylvia upstairs—now!”

Matteo nodded, firing back as he moved toward the stairwell.

I pulled my weapon from the drawer, heart pounding, the scent of smoke and rain filling my lungs.

The villa was a maze of memory and marble—every corridor now echoing with betrayal.

I caught sight of Vito through the haze, firing orders, his voice cold and efficient. He hadn’t hesitated. Not once.

He had been waiting for this.

By the time I reached the stairs, Matteo was already halfway up, shouting Sylvia’s name.

“Derek!” she called from the upper floor, her voice sharp with fear.

“Stay in your room!” I yelled back. “Lock the door!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

The next bullet hit the wall inches from her shoulder. I fired back blindly, rage and panic colliding inside me.

“Go!” I roared at Matteo. “Get her to the back terrace—through the servant’s corridor!”

He hesitated only long enough to grab her hand and pull her away.

When I turned again, I found Vito at the end of the hall, his gun raised.

Our eyes met—years of brotherhood, battles, shared blood condensed into a single heartbeat.

Then he fired.

Pain burned through my shoulder, spinning me back into the wall.
The sound in my head went silent for a moment—like the world had paused just to watch me bleed.

I pushed off the wall, fired three rounds back. One caught his arm. He ducked, cursing, and vanishing behind the corner.

Blood dripped down my arm, warm and thick.

“Derek!” Matteo’s voice echoed from somewhere upstairs.

“I’m fine!” I shouted back, even though I wasn’t.

I stumbled through the corridor, smoke thickening, shadows moving like ghosts.

Each step felt heavier—each breath a fight. But the only thought burning through my mind was Sylvia.

Where is she? Is she safe?

In the chaos, my phone buzzed again—another encrypted ping from my inner line.

I almost ignored it until I saw the sender.
Unknown ID: Jezebel.

The message was short.

> “You shouldn’t have chosen her.
Now you’ll learn what loyalty costs.”

My jaw clenched.
Abigail.

Somewhere, in some corner of this chaos, she was watching.

Maybe she’d fed the rival information. Maybe she’d armed Vito.
Either way, this wasn’t just betrayal—it was personal.

The next explosion came from the east wing.
Matteo’s voice shouted something—then static.

I didn’t think so. I ran.

Smoke oozed through the halls, thick enough to choke on.
When I reached the corridor, I saw her—Sylvia—half-hidden behind Matteo, her hands pressed to her ears, her eyes wide.

Her mother was nowhere in sight.

“Come on!” I shouted, waving them toward me. “We’re leaving!”

Matteo grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her close.

We moved through the side passage toward the garage, gunfire following us like a curse.

Outside, the rain had turned the courtyard into a mirror of chaos—cars overturned, guards firing from behind walls, the sound of distant sirens echoing through the Moroccan night.

I fired at anything that moved.
Each shot, each flash of light, was another piece of the world breaking apart.

When we reached the garage, a black SUV waited, engine running.

“Go!” Matteo yelled, shoving Sylvia inside first.

I followed, still bleeding, adrenaline forcing my heart to beat faster than the pain.

But before Matteo could get in, a bullet found him.

He staggered, eyes wide, the impact spinning him sideways.

“Matteo!” Sylvia screamed, trying to get out, but I caught her arm.

“Don’t—”

He was already down, his gun clattering across the ground.

Vito emerged from the shadows, weapon raised, rain dripping from his hair, eyes full of something worse than hatred.

“Boss,” he said quietly. “You taught me everything. I just learned better.”

“Don’t do this.”

“You should’ve never brought her into it.”

I aimed straight at his chest. “Neither should you.”

We fired at the same time.

His shot grazed my ribs. Mine hit his throat.

He fell to his knees, eyes wide with shock—then collapsed into the rain.

The sound of thunder swallowed everything else.

I barely remember dragging Matteo’s body into the SUV, or how my hands shook as I started the engine.

Sylvia’s face was streaked with tears and rain, her voice trembling. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“There’s nowhere safe anymore,” she whispered.

I couldn’t argue.

The villa behind us burned, orange flames cutting through the black sky.

I drove until the roads blurred into the darkness of the Moroccan countryside—empty fields, flickering streetlights, the world closing in.

Blood from my shoulder soaked through the fabric, warm against the steering wheel.

Sylvia pressed a trembling hand to it, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse,” I murmured.

She leaned closer, her forehead touching my arm. “Don’t lie to me.”

I met her eyes for a heartbeat—then looked back to the road.
“You don’t get to break now,” I said quietly. “Not when I’m still breathing.”

By the time we reached the old coastal house—one of my emergency hideouts—the rain had faded into drizzle.

The place smelled of salt and dust, untouched for months.

Sylvia followed me inside, her steps hesitant, her hands still trembling.

I collapsed against the wall, breathing hard, the pain in my side sharp enough to blur my vision.

She grabbed a towel, pressed it to my wound, tears slipping down her cheeks silently.

I caught her wrist. “Hey. Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted, full of fear.

“I told you I’d protect you,” I said. “That hasn’t changed.”

Her voice cracked. “You killed him, Derek.”

“He would’ve killed us.”

“I know,” she whispered, “but it doesn’t make it easier.”

I wanted to tell her everything—the years of blood, the cost of loyalty, the line I’d crossed long before she ever loved me—but my throat closed around the truth.

Instead, I kissed her forehead softly.
“Sleep. Please.”

She didn’t answer. Just rested her head against my chest, silent, shaking, alive.
She stood up and searched for first aid kit and found one in one of the dusty cupboards . She dusted it and treated my wound and I marveled at her artistry on wound treatment as she proceeded to get the bullets out and stitched up the wound so neat and at that moment I remembered - her passion . A nurse.
I had forgotten what her career and normal life looked like and at this moment I promised myself to take her somewhere better to make her beautiful as her face .

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Hours passed.
The house was silent except for the waves crashing against the cliffs outside.

I sat there, half-awake, the gun still within reach.

The storm had passed, but another was coming—I could feel it in the cold wind that slipped through the cracked shutters.

My phone buzzed again, one final message lighting up the dark screen:

> “The rival has risen.
Morocco was only the beginning.”

No name. No number. Just that.

I looked down at Sylvia, sleeping against me, and felt the weight of everything I’d done pressing against my chest.

Outside,
the first light of dawn broke over the horizon—pale, fragile, and uncertain.

The world had changed overnight.
And somewhere, in the ruins of the life we’d just escaped, Abigail was still out there—smiling, planning her next move.

Because this war wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.