Chapter 25
H assan sat in his office, surrounded by Jules, Roman, and Von, his jaw tight, eyes darker than midnight.
It was time. Time to end this shit once and for all—and get his woman back.
Sevyn. The only thing keeping him breathing.
He’d taken Ariel and Dorian to one of his most secluded spots, hidden deep in the hills and impossible to track.
Unlike the care he’d shown with Celine, he told Dorian to make Ariel's stay hell. No comfort, no softness—just consequences. After everything that bitch had done to Sevyn, she didn’t deserve mercy.
Ariel kept her end of the deal, shaking and stammering as she called Braxton, telling him she had all the money in cash, ready for pick up.
She didn’t know it, but Hassan was right there, watching, his cold stare burning through her as she hit call.
And like the greedy, desperate bastard he was, Braxton didn’t hesitate.
He texted the drop location and gave her step-by-step instructions, never realizing he’d just sealed his fate.
Now Hassan sat still, not moving, not speaking. Just waiting.
The silence in the room was thick, suffocating.
No one dared break it. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the low, distant chaos of the casino floor downstairs.
But that chaos didn’t touch this room. In here, war was brewing.
Carlos DeVille was on his way, summoned not with fear—but with leverage.
Hassan had his precious granddaughter, and now, Carlos was coming to negotiate.
Hassan wasn’t in the mood to negotiate.
This was personal. He had one last move to make before he could reach Sevyn—one last demon to face. The man who’d been haunting him since he was six years old. The one who set the wheels of his entire fucked-up life in motion. Hassan didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t hope. He just waited.
And when Carlos stepped through those doors, it would be the beginning of the end.
A knock echoed through the office like a trigger being pulled.
One of Hassan’s security guards stepped in, followed by four men with Glocks tucked at their waists.
Hassan didn’t flinch. His own men were alread y posted at every point in the building, weapons drawn, eyes sharp, ready for war.
If Carlos DeVille came here looking for a show of force, he was about to be disappointed.
Then the fifth man walked in.
Fair-toned brown, tall—at least 6’2—with a lean, commanding frame dressed in a black designer suit that whispered old money and silent power.
His salt-and-pepper beard was trimmed to perfection, low-cut curls groomed like he didn’t take a step outside unless he looked like royalty.
But it was the gold lion-headed cane that drew eyes.
Not because he needed it, but because it was a symbol—one of legacy, pride, and danger.
The room tensed, but Hassan didn’t move a muscle.
Carlos DeVille.
He didn’t need an introduction. Every inch of him screamed control. Ruthless. Feared. Respected. But none of that mattered to Hassan.
Not today.
Hassan usually stood to greet men of power, out of custom, respect, or strategy. But there was no respect in him for this nigga. Not when the woman he loved was out there, chained and broken, while Carlos played puppet master from behind the scenes.
Even if he didn’t know Braxton was using him. Even if he wasn’t the one giving the orders directly.
He still gave that man access. Still handed over the keys to a private hangar—one only a DeVille could touch. And now Braxton was planning to use it to disappear with Sevyn. That made Carlos guilty enough.
So Hassan stayed seated, cold eyes locked on the lion with the cane, every inch of his posture saying the same thing: I’m not here to play with you, old man. You’re in my house now.
Carlos scanned the room with a slow, calculated sweep before his eyes locked with Hassan’s—two storms colliding, one seasoned with time, the other sharpened by vengeance.
Hassan didn’t blink. He motioned casually to the empty chair across from him, and after a long pause, Carlos sat.
His men stood behind him, stone-faced, guns at their hips, eyes moving like lasers.
Hassan’s men did the same— ready to kill with no hesitation.
“You’re bold, Gaines. Kidnapping my granddaughter?” Carlos said finally, his tone slick with venom. He came to strike, not to talk. Hassan let out a cold smirk, something wicked curling on his lips.
“You’re bold too. Kidnapping my wife.”
Silence stretched between them like a trigger waiting to snap. Both men sat still, eyes locked, death simmering just beneath the surface.
“Braxton acted on emotion,” Carlos responded smoothly, tone calm like he didn’t just try to justify a war. “I didn’t sign off on that. He said she was his woman. Claimed you took her. Didn’t know you were married.”
The moment he said Sevyn belonged to Braxton, Hassan’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack. That was the wrong move.
“You housed him. Armed him. Gave him a runway, a plane, a fucking ghost trail. That makes you guilty by blood. So now, when I kill him—slowly—you’ll know exactly why,” Hassan said, voice like death itself.
“And trust me, what I did to your bitch-ass nephew is nothing compared to what’s coming next. ”
Carlos’s men stiffened behind him, visibly shaken. Hassan didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. Yet he iced the room like the devil had taken a seat.
“My nephew didn’t deserve what you did to him,” Carlos said, his own mask of calm beginning to crack.
“He killed the wrong family,” Hassan snapped. “But y’all fucked up when you left me breathing.”
Carlos stared at him long and hard, no words needed to confirm the shift in power. Hassan was decades younger, but twice as lethal. He wasn’t just a product of revenge—he was built from it.
“Your father got what was coming to him,” Carlos said, trying to strike a nerve.
Hassan leaned forward, eyes black with rage. “Yeah… he did. But my mama didn’t. That’s why your nephew died screaming. And it’s exactly why Braxton’s next.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the calm before bodies hit the floor.
“Your wife is alive. Unharmed—for now,” Carlos said, trying to regain control of the room. Truth was, he didn’t know if she was or not. He was grasping, hoping to get his granddaughter back before this all slipped beyond repair.
“So is Celine. But I don’t do ‘for now.’”
Hassan’s words sliced through the air, dropping the room’s temperature by ten degrees. His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was the kind that made killers flinch.
He nodded once at Roman, who slid a thick folder across the table. Carlos eyed it warily before flipping it open, expecting threats. Instead—bank statements. Wire transfers. Classified federal reports. As he flipped through, the smug calm on his face faltered.
“The nigga you helping… your great-nephew,” Hassan started, his voice ice.
Carlos looked up, startled—his expression giving away what he thought was buried. Hassan grinned, slow and vicious, feeding off the way Carlos clenched his jaw .
“Yeah, we know. Wasn’t hard. Grayson kept your name. Braxton didn’t. Thought changing it to his daddy’s would keep him hidden. It didn’t.”
Carlos turned back to the folder, flipping faster now. His hand stilled on a page.
“Braxton’s been bleeding you dry. Moving money into offshore accounts under shell names tied to him.
And that’s just the first cut.” Hassan leaned forward slightly, letting the weight of his words settle.
“He’s talking to the feds. Gave ‘em everything—your ports, your routes, your accounts. He’s gutting your empire from the inside, and selling it piece by piece to save his own ass. ”
Carlos didn’t respond. His silence was loud. His eyes narrowed on the documents like they were poison. For a man who built his reputation on being five steps ahead, this—this—was a blindside.
“Funny,” Hassan continued. “You pride yourself on strategy. On control. But you made two mistakes that’s gonna cost you everything.”
Carlos looked up.
“One—you didn’t kill me when I was in that house, watchin’ my parents bleed out.”
Pause.
“And two—you backed the wrong fucking man.”
Silence wrapped the room tight. No one moved. No one breathed too loud.
“So we can go back and forth about Braxton kidnapping my wife,” Hassan said, calm but lethal. “Or we can do what we both do best— handle business.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Carlos. “Either way, I’m getting her back. The only question is—do you want to die beside your nephew, or live long enough to see your granddaughter walk across that graduation stage?”
Carlos stared back, no longer a king in the room—just another man who underestimated the devil.
Carlos lowered the folder slowly, his breaths shallow, deliberate. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice softer now, stripped of bravado—but still laced with sharpness, clinging to whatever power he had left.
“Does it matter?” Hassan fired back, his tone calm, but laced with venom. “The man you helped raise? He’s the reason they’ll kick your door in. Unless you move first.”
Carlos leaned back in his chair, his eyes no longer burning, but calculating. Exactly what Hassan wanted.
He could see it—Carlos mentally playing the board, mapping the risk, scanning the fallout.
That was the difference between men like them.
Carlos was a businessman first. Always had been.
He didn’t blink when he had Hassan’s parents murdered.
Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think about the six-year-old boy curled in blood, or what kind of monster that loss would breed.
He only saw numbers. A theft. A retaliation.
And now, that same cold strategy was working against him.
Hassan knew what he was doing. Everyone had a weakness. Even kings. His father’s was gambling. His was family. That’s where Carlos struck.