Silent Night, Deadly Night (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Gabe

Snow turned the street into a blank page. The Grant house waited at the end of the cul-de-sac, bright windows throwing yellow across the driveway. Everything looked peaceful from a distance. From the inside, it wouldn’t stay that way.

I left my SUV where I always did, three blocks back. The walk gave me time to settle into the headspace I needed—not rage, not thrill, not dread. Just clarity. I already knew every porch light on this route, every sensor, every camera angle. Precision guaranteed survival.

Temperature dropped as I neared the house, but my mind didn’t register cold anymore. I focused on the driveway—Mercedes, sedan, crossover. All home. Good.

The door stood cracked open. My informant earned his payout.

Warm air rushed over me when I stepped into the foyer. Cinnamon and pine hit first, then slow instrumental music someone probably thought sounded classy. A towering Christmas tree filled the space, thousands of tiny lights blinking in rotation. Packaging for a happy family. Underneath, corruption.

My weapon rested under my coat, fitted for the job.

My grip found the handle and stayed there while I walked.

Hardwood muted under the runner, portraits lining both sides of the hall.

Vacations, graduations, celebrations. The camera caught everyone smiling every time.

Pictures lie. People lie. Actions don’t.

Movement in the living room doorway—Maxwell.

He recognized me right away. His hand loosened around a crystal glass, liquor splashing when it hit the floor. He looked like a man who thought he still had options.

“Gabriel... why are you here?”

A stall. He already knew.

He backed away when I drew the gun. “Listen. We can fix this. I’ll match whatever price—double. Triple.”

“Not money.”

A pulse flickered under the skin of his throat. “Then tell me what you want.”

“You crossed the wrong person.”

His focus darted to the stairs. Desperation replaced arrogance. “My family doesn’t deserve this.”

His voice shook. His hands trembled. He wanted to bargain, plead, negotiate. The powerful always assumed villains could be reasoned with. I wasn’t a villain. I was the correction.

“Turn around.”

“No—please—”

“Turn around.”

He didn’t obey. Maybe courage. Maybe cowardice. Either way, defiance ended the same.

I fired.

The suppressor reduced the sound to a short punch of air. His knees buckled. His body hit the floor hard. Blood spread fast over the runner, soaking deep. Warm color against polished wood. My attention tracked details—breathing, pulse, micro-movement. Nothing.

One target down.

I stepped over him and headed for the stairs. The job required precision, not emotion. Maxwell made decisions; consequences reached his family too. Real power didn’t show mercy. Mercy got people killed.

The second floor waited—three more names.

Snow kept falling outside. The world didn’t pause. Noon or midnight, holiday or not, actions paid out. Tonight wasn’t personal.

It was necessary.

The stairs groaned under my steps. I froze halfway up, listening for even the smallest shift.

Nothing touched the silence except muted television noise from downstairs and the steady hum of the furnace.

Christmas decorations lined the banister—fake pine, red velvet bows, precision and perfection meant for people who expected comfort.

The landing waited at the top. Four bedrooms. Two bathrooms. I already knew where everyone slept.

First door on the right.

The handle turned without resistance. I slipped inside.

Not a child’s room—young adult, early twenties. Posters everywhere, game controllers on the floor, clothes half folded on a chair, gift wrap left out mid-task. He sprawled across the bed, snoring lightly, completely unaware of the world outside his head.

I tracked the rise and fall of his breathing, the complete absence of stress in his expression. A normal life. College, friends, holidays, family dinners. A future.

None of that changed the next step.

The suppressor touched his temple. One pull. One sharp jolt across his body. Then stillness. Blood soaked into the pillow. I checked his pulse—habit, not doubt—and moved on.

My heartbeat stayed level, my grip solid. I didn’t need to shove emotion down anymore. Jobs turned everything inside me quiet.

Second bedroom across the hall.

She slept in the center of the queen bed. Perfume lingered—lavender, vanilla. A book lay beside a pair of reading glasses. Old movie on the television, muted. Her breathing remained deep and unbroken.

She never woke.

Clean shot. Clean exit. A physical reaction hit the mattress—small shift, natural reflex. I pulled the blanket higher, not out of compassion but routine. Bodies belong to crime scenes after I’m done, not to me.

Two down.

Master bedroom next.

Empty.

I frowned. No miscalculation allowed. So I rechecked the remaining rooms.

Bathroom—empty. Home office—empty. Final bedroom at the end of the hall.

A small wreath hung on that door—real foliage, not the plastic downstairs. Fresh pine scent struck me harder than expected.

I pushed in.

Bookshelves filled an entire wall. Sketches littered the desk. Photographs covered a corkboard—friends, travel, sunlight, laughter. A life built on creativity, not power.

She slept on her side. Late twenties maybe. Dark hair across the pillow. Plaid pajama pants, worn shirt, open book fallen beside her hand.

The daughter. Mia.

I crossed to the bed and raised the weapon.

Something stalled the motion—not hesitation born from softness, not sentiment.

Something more primal. A shift in energy.

A detail my brain refused to gloss over.

Real in every way that mattered, forged from her own choices.

Not part of her father’s empire and no accessory to anyone’s power.

And she sure as hell wasn’t a civilian shield.

A person.

I cut off that line of thought immediately. I didn’t get to humanize targets. Humanizing targets made corpses feel personal.

I pressed the suppressor against her temple.

Trigger pulled.

Her breathing halted after one final inhale. Blood seeped across the white pillowcase, staining it fast. I watched her face, waiting for any twitch of life. Nothing.

I stepped back.

Three upstairs. One downstairs. Every name handled.

The window at the end of the hall framed the street—snow smoothing every surface under perfect silence. Houses around here slept soundly. No alarms. No screams. No one watching the monster in their midst.

My watch read 12:15.

Christmas morning.

Time to stage the scene and clean my prints from this place before sunrise.

The staging needed chaos, not precision. Real burglars ransacked out of panic and greed, not strategy. I built the disorder in controlled steps so investigators would see randomness, not design.

I began in the master bedroom. Drawers yanked open. Clothes dumped. Jewelry scattered across the carpet. Expensive pieces disappeared into my bag, cheaper items left behind to create the illusion of rushed judgment.

The closet came next. Boxes shoved off shelves. Shoes everywhere. Designer handbags tossed across the floor. One purse held a few hundred dollars. I pocketed the cash and then dropped half on the rug—carelessness made everything believable.

The bathroom counter cleared into the sink. Prescriptions vanished into my pocket. Glance at the mirror—blank expression staring back, steady, clean. No blood on my clothes. Exactly how I preferred to work.

The daughter’s room required more restraint. Disturbing her body risked giving too much away. I emptied desk drawers, spilled art supplies and papers. Her laptop went into the bag. Jewelry scattered. Closet opened but barely touched. Clothing never held value for thieves.

Her bookshelf stood too organized—alphabetical. Perfection begged to be broken. I pulled several titles and tossed them on the floor. A photo slid free and landed at my boots. Her—teenage, laughing, surrounded by friends on a beach. Joy radiated from her face.

I dropped the picture face down.

Shit. The girl in the bed didn’t match the one in the photo. Who the fuck had I just killed? And why was she in the daughter’s room? Another family member, maybe?

I’d have to figure it out later. Right now, I had to stay on track. Whether she’d been my intended target or not, I still had a body to deal with.

The son’s room went faster. Drawers emptied, electronics bagged. His half-wrapped gift hid a luxury watch. Into the bag. I left the remaining wrapping scattered for realism.

Downstairs took more time. Maxwell’s death needed to look chaotic, not calculated.

Side table knocked over. Magazines scattered. Glassware from the cabinet smashed across the floor. Silverware dumped. I made sure nothing looked deliberate—no patterns, no symmetry. The more careless, the better.

Maxwell’s position needed adjustment. Execution posed too clean. I shifted him enough to suggest a fight—pulled his shirt, created the illusion of desperate hands trying to hold someone off. I didn’t let blood touch me.

The broken whiskey glass helped. I added to the story by knocking a full bottle off the bar cart. Liquor spread across the floor, mixing with blood, turning everything sharp and sour.

In the study, I found what I expected—the safe behind the painting. My contact gave me the code. Cash, jewelry, documents. I took the valuables, leaving papers scattered across the desk. Thieves didn’t care about paperwork.

More disorder—desk drawers pulled, books swept off shelves, lamp knocked over. Not too careful, not too sloppy. The sweet spot.

The kitchen also needed signs of intrusion. Cabinets open, drawers half out. I grabbed the small laptop charging on the counter and dropped it into my bag.

Through everything, the same rhythm anchored me—create chaos, leave nothing of myself behind.

When I finally stepped back in the living room, the scene matched what I needed: violent, abrupt, opportunistic.

Nothing suggested professional work or cold intent.

A home invasion interrupted by an arriving homeowner.

Panic. Shots fired. Witnesses upstairs wiped out so no one could identify the intruders.

The Christmas tree glowed through the carnage, harmless and oblivious. Red. Green. Gold. The lights reflected off the blood pooling beneath Maxwell. Carolers on the television carried on about peace and joy. The disconnect didn’t bother me.

I checked my watch—12:43. Almost an hour inside.

Time to erase myself completely.

I retraced my route upstairs. A treated cloth in hand. Every knob, switch, surface I touched received attention. The solution removed prints, oil, and skin cells. Everything.

The son’s room—door handle, switch, desk edge. I’d changed my mind about his console earlier, left it behind. No trace of my grip remained.

Wife’s room—same process. Remote wiped. Counter wiped. Nothing on the carpet near her body.

The daughter’s room needed time. More points of contact. Door handle, switch, desk, drawers. The photograph went back to the desk after a careful clean—not because I cared, but because evidence mattered. I smoothed the carpet near her bed to erase boot impressions. Nightstand lamp. Book.

Master bedroom—cleaned top to bottom. Closets checked for fibers, none.

Hallway—banister, wall, each room’s outer handle, even the window I’d looked through.

Reached the stairs again, wiped the railing even though no trace remained.

Downstairs—every surface I interacted with received attention. Desk, safe, study doorknob, counters, drawer pulls. Never stepped in blood. Never touched a surface without thinking ahead.

When I approached the front door, a crooked picture frame caught my attention. Not staged—an accident from when I first entered. It showed the family on a beach. Their smiles were unguarded, genuine.

Leaving it crooked worked on paper, but disorder needed purpose. I straightened the frame until it aligned. Then wiped the glass and the wall in a methodical circle around it.

Last scan of the living room—every detail where I wanted it.

Bag of valuables secured. Everything inside would be destroyed, recycled through channels that erased origins. The cash would wash through my system. The rest would vanish.

I heard something upstairs and glanced up. Even though I’d watched them all breathe their last, I should check once more to be sure. I quietly went back up the stairs. The job would be done once I knew for certain I’d left no survivors.