Chapter 120

Chapter 120
Rhett's PPOV

His pupils constricted. "What boss?"

My eyes met his, cold and unblinking. "A charity director doesn't have the resources or connections to orchestrate all this. Don't insult my intelligence."

"There is no boss," he insisted stubbornly. "I've told you everything you wanted to know."

I smiled faintly, glancing at the phone screen. "Mark, let's start with the little one. A child that size—those dogs could finish her in two bites."

My voice remained conversational as I continued. "Would you like to watch how they tear into her, Thomas? Shall we see if they start with the limbs or go straight for the throat?"

On the screen, two men moved toward the mother and daughter. The woman screamed as they wrenched the child from her arms, carrying the thrashing girl toward the dog cage. The Dobermans leapt up, barking furiously, claws scraping against the metal bars.

"Wait!" Thomas shouted, his face contorted with panic. "I'll tell you everything!"

Just as I waited for his answer, Thomas lunged for a wine bottle on the table, swinging it toward my head.

I didn't even flinch.

A blur of movement intercepted him—Jack grabbed Thomas's wrist and twisted sharply. The crack of breaking bone was followed by the bottle smashing on the floor. Thomas cried out in pain as Jack forced him back into his chair.

He stared at Jack with shock, clearly surprised by the bodyguard's speed.

Thomas laughed bitterly through his pain. "Surrounded by professionals, Hayes? Afraid of ending up like daddy?"

I stood and walked to his side, bending down close to his ear. "I'm young. Of course I value my life."

Jack pinned Thomas's injured wrist to the table. I took a deep drag of my cigarette and, still smiling, pressed the burning end directly into the back of his hand, grinding it deliberately until it extinguished.

"Unlike you," I whispered, "who seems so eager to die."

I tossed the phone to Mark, who stood nearby. "Feed them both to the dogs. Give our pets a little appetizer. And make sure to record it for our friend here."

"Hayes!" Thomas roared, struggling against Jack's iron grip. "You psychopath! Aren't you afraid someone will do the same to your wife someday?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

I pressed my gun against his forehead, my expression unchanged but my eyes burning with cold fury. "Your mouth is causing problems. Let's fix that."

I grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back. From my pocket, I removed two bullet casings—the same caliber as the bullets that had been meant for me—and forced them into his mouth.

Thomas's eyes bulged as he recognized the casings. I shoved them deeper into his throat.

"Recognize these? Swallow them," I ordered.

The hard metal lodged in his throat. His face turned red, then purple, as he fought for air. He clawed desperately at his throat, but Jack held his hands immobile.

I grabbed a broken wine bottle from the table, the jagged edge gleaming in the light. Without hesitation, I drove it into Thomas's abdomen, twisting it to maximize the damage.

"How many times did you try to kill me, Thomas?" I asked conversationally, twisting the glass deeper. "And you even dared to target my wife? That's unforgivable."

With his throat blocked by the casings and a bottle embedded in his gut, Thomas's face turned a mottled blue. I picked up his wine glass and held it under the wound, collecting the flowing blood.

When the glass was half-full, I brought it to his lips. "Drink," I commanded. "Slowly, so you don't choke."

I poured the dark liquid into his mouth. Thomas gagged violently, but the blood helped wash down the casings. He gasped desperately for air once his airway cleared.

His eyes, bloodshot and wild, stared at me with a new understanding. He now knew the rumors about my brutality weren't exaggerated.

I tapped the empty glass against his ashen cheek. "You've enjoyed the good life long enough, Thomas. Time to pay your debts."

Jack released him, and Thomas collapsed to the floor, vomiting blood and bile.

I wiped my hands fastidiously with a napkin Mark handed me. Looking down at the half-dead man on the floor, I asked, "Curious what your life is worth, after spending a million on mine?"

I flicked a penny that landed by his face. "Not enough to buy coffins for your wife and daughter."

Thomas lay bleeding on the floor, his eyes finding Mark, who had remained silent throughout. Understanding dawned in his fading gaze.

He laughed weakly, blood bubbling from his lips. "Hayes... you'll fall too... someday... just wait and see..."

At that moment, the doors to the private room burst open. A dozen uniformed officers poured in, led by a stern-faced man in his fifties.

I met Andrew Wellington's eyes and smiled casually. "Perfect timing, Chief. Self-defense just concluded. Any later, and I might not have survived."

Wellington glanced around the room, taking in the scene with practiced detachment. He knew all my men, just as he knew I was lying through my teeth.

He approached me, lowering his voice. "This was your plan?"

Earlier today, I'd called him about a situation requiring his cooperation, including the "accident" on the highway. I'd asked him to arrive precisely at this time to "catch a fish."

I handed him a recording device. "Chief, I caught your criminal."

Thomas was already being carried out on a stretcher. Wellington stared at the blood pool on the floor, then at the recorder in his hand.

"So Kenneth really was murdered?" he asked, his expression complicated.

I smiled innocently. "Chief, he's all yours now. Question him thoroughly."

The use of "Chief" instead of "Andrew" was deliberate—keeping this professional. Wellington's gaze softened slightly at the formality.

"Rhett, you knew he was targeting you?"

I smiled charmingly. "Just following leads, that's all."

Wellington knew my evasiveness meant the conversation was over. He nodded briefly, directing his officers to process the scene before departing.

Mark approached once the police had gone. "Boss, are we really letting the police handle this?"

I stared at the doorway, my expression darkening. "Andrew's retiring in a few years. I don't want him involved in what comes next."

The recording I'd given Wellington was heavily edited, containing only Thomas's confession to the murder. The rest—including whatever lay behind Hope Heaven Charity—was my business now.

I smiled grimly. We'd caught the small fish. The big one wouldn't be far behind.

"Boss," Jack murmured, approaching discreetly. "Mrs. Hayes received news of your 'accident.' She collapsed when she heard."

My face fell instantly. I glared at both Jack and Mark. "Sometimes I really want to put a bullet in both of you idiots."

I strode from the room, heading home to Sheryl. Whatever happened next with Hope Heaven could wait—my wife couldn't.