Thirty-Three
Zagan
I step out of the car, my mind razor-sharp despite the chaos around me. Police sirens wail, their incessant noise grating but irrelevant. Detectives linger like vultures, their presence a nuisance I don’t have the patience for. The police chief starts toward me, but Iblis intercepts, steering him away before I’m forced to handle him myself. Nico stays close, his sharp eyes cataloguing every movement, every face. A few of my men flank the entrance to one of the most esteemed casinos in Walius, their presence a silent statement.
All the customers had been cleared, and I expected an empty casino. But inside, my business associates hover like moths drawn to the flame. At my arrival, they rise like marionettes on strings, a mix of dread and misplaced hope clouding their expressions. Their postures are tense, their eyes flicking toward me as though I hold the answers to this disruption. Pathetic.
“Boss,” Gringo, my manager for the fighting rings, nods respectfully.
I offer no acknowledgement, my gaze already fixed on my destination: the office of Trevor Martinez, the casino’s owner.
The death of a business associate is no anomaly. In this world, only the ruthless endure, and I have no patience for weakness. Normally, I’d delegate this nonsense to Iblis, but Trevor’s murder wasn’t a random act. Whoever orchestrated it intended to provoke me.
Trevor Martinez was more than a money-laundering asset. I have countless fronts for that, each one replaceable. What set him apart was his loyalty. In the war against the Crescenzo fucks, he stood firm, risking everything—including his only child—to bankroll our fight. Even after that loss, he didn’t falter.
And then there was his connection to Iko. Trevor was the only man Iko ever called a friend.
Quince—one of my men—moves to open the door but lingers outside as I step over the threshold. I pause, turning briefly to glance at my associates. Their fear is palpable, a sickly stench in the air. Pathetic. A pack of spineless vermin. Ara’s kid has more spine than them all.
“Clear them,” I order.
Quince nods curtly, ushering them out as I enter.
The stench of death hits me first—a cloying, metallic scent that saturates the room. Bodies are scattered like discarded trash, their positions grotesque. Forensics mill around, snapping photos and bagging evidence, their movements brisk but measured. It pisses me off to no end that the damn rookie called the cops before my men. Now I’ve got a pack of bureaucrats sniffing around, not because they can actually do anything, but because they want to grovel at my feet and expect a pat on the head for being useless.
A woman approaches, clipboard in hand. Her dark uniform blends with the room's oppressive atmosphere.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Kelly. The chief asked me to brief you on our preliminary findings.”
I don’t respond, my attention drawn to the scene. A gaping wound in one man’s neck catches my eye; a pen rammed deep into his flesh. Nearby, another corpse bears a shattered glass shard embedded in its eye socket. The tools of their deaths are absurd in their ordinariness—a comb buried in a throat, a table flag’s metal pole spearing a skull, a rod pinning a man to the wall like a grotesque display.
Kelly hesitates, gauging my reaction. “Our profiler suggests this might be the work of a skilled group.”
I glance at her, one brow arched. “You don’t agree.”
Her eyes shift to the rod impaling the pinned corpse as officers carefully manoeuvre the body free.
“No, sir,” she says, voice steady despite the carnage. “This level of precision, the improvisation of weapons… it’s unlikely a group could work so seamlessly. Every blow was fatal and executed with clinical efficiency. This is the work of one individual. Highly trained. Possibly ex-military or something similar.”
Her tone remains professional, but there’s an edge of unease as she continues.
“The scene was wiped clean. No prints other than Trevor’s and his men’s. No stray hairs, no fibres, no DNA. Apart from the blood, it’s like no one else was ever here. That kind of meticulousness suggests someone might have helped with the cleanup, but not the killings themselves. This… this level of skill isn’t something you see often.”
I glance at Nico, who’s been silently observing. His expression is a cold mask, but his hand flexes once at his side, a subtle tell.
“You’re saying one person took out a room full of armed men and left no trace,” I state flatly, more to confirm her nerve than for clarity.
Kelly nods, her gaze steady. “Yes, sir. And they didn’t just kill—they made a statement. This wasn’t a rushed attack. Every choice of weapon, every blow, it’s calculated. They even rigged the cameras before three days, and the matter was overlooked, which was then taken advantage of.”
I say nothing, my mind running through the implications. A lone operator capable of this? It’s both a problem and a curiosity.
Iblis enters. He surveys the scene with a practised eye, his expression giving nothing away as he stops beside me.
“Any leads?” he asks, his tone clipped.
Kelly shakes her head. “None yet. If the killer left anything behind, we haven’t found it. The cleanup was too thorough. Whoever did this wanted to ensure no trail could be followed.”
Iblis exhales, low and sharp. “Efficient.”
“Dangerous,” I correct, my gaze fixed on the rod being placed into an evidence bag.
The room feels colder as Iblis glances at me, his eyes reflecting the same thought that lingers in my mind. This wasn’t just murder. This was a message. And I have every intention of delivering a reply.
“Ma’am?”
Kelly turns to one of her associates as he holds what seems to be a piece of paper. Iblis snatches it before the woman, holding it out to me.
Every rat who dared side with you scum will share this fate. Besall is ours—no filth defies the Crescenzos.
“How original,” I mutter, handing it back to Iblis.
The woman doesn’t ask for it. Good. She’s smart enough to know when to shut up. I approach the office desk where Trevor’s body lies. His eyes are wide open, his hands resting on the armrest. A clean slice on his neck has already drenched the front of his body in blood.
I don’t see any signs of struggle in him. His suit is immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, and the cigar still dangles from his mouth. Kelly confirms my thoughts.
“No signs of struggle or fight,” she says.
Trevor likely accepted his fate after witnessing the killer single-handedly dispatch his men. Before my men could get here, it was already over. As much as I hate to admit it, this killer was efficient.
“Who could have the guts to take the hit on him?” Iblis muses aloud.
It’s not because Trevor had tight-knit security or was untouchable. He was like any businessman. What separated him was my protection. People knew that messing with him meant answering me. I valued loyalty, and I rewarded it properly.
“The rouges,” I say, turning away from Trevor’s body.
It takes all of two seconds for my men to digest the information before they get to work. Iblis walks to Kelly to talk to her while Nico orders her men to clear out. Anything concerning the rouges falls under The Dark Accord, and we deal with things on our own. We don’t want uniforms sullying the process. Quite frankly, they’re out of their league here.
The team clears out quickly while my men bag the bodies for burial. I lean on Trevor’s desk, trying to rein in my temper that wants to wreak chaos. I’m tempted to turn the city upside down, kill every fucking bounty hunter, and track every fuck on the dark web advertising these kills.
“How do we know it’s those rouge bastards?” Nico growls, slamming the door shut.
“They’re the only ones with the need for money, the skills, and the guts to go against us,” I explain, “any assassin in the area would steer clear of men under our protection.”
“We’ve had occasions where our men were killed,” Nico counters.
“The bounty on their heads was high. Crescenzos can’t offer that much, given their dwindling funds. These rouges are desperate, even if it’s for smaller payouts than they’re used to.” Iblis grits out.
“Cocky fuckers,” Nico snarls.
A ring from my phone draws my attention. I frown when I see Vessar’s name on the ID.
“Yes?”
“Where is my shipment, Devlin?”
Charon’s voice is sharp, cutting through the line with an edge I haven’t heard in a while. He’s angry, and it’s not a surprise —losing the shipment doesn’t make us weak, but it’s still an unnecessary complication we don’t need right now.
“Careful there, Vessar,” I growl.
“You received the confirmation?” he demands, his tone tense, clipped.
“Yes. Xander collected it from the neutral location before my men left.”
“Fuck. Fucking shit!”
I raise an eyebrow. Charon’s the one who doesn’t lose his composure. He’s the picture of cold, calculated control, always looking down on everyone with that aristocratic arrogance. It’s unnerving to hear him like this. But I’m not surprised. The shipment wasn’t just a batch of weapons—it was leverage, and now it’s gone.
“The shipment is lost,” Charon mutters, his voice low, almost like he can’t believe it himself.
I exhale sharply, feeling a surge of irritation. Losing the shipment won’t break us—it’s a minor setback in the grand scheme of things.
“What the fuck do you mean it’s lost?” I growl, frustration simmering under my skin.
“It means someone stole it, Zagan.”
Amon’s voice cuts through the tension now. His words are calculated, the same as ever, but there’s no denying this fucks with our plans.
“Explain,” Charon hisses, not even a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Xander and his team were killed. I just received the report from Ivan.”
I let out a sharp breath, grinding my teeth as the implications sink in.
“Anything else?” I ask, keeping my voice steady, calm.
“The kills are clean, skilled. Ivan ran the details through the database. It matches the pattern of Cruxis-sanctioned hits,” Amon explains.
Cruxis. Always trouble, always stirring shit up. But they wouldn’t be this reckless, not after the mess we’ve already cleaned up between us. This doesn’t feel like them—it feels like someone wants us to think it’s them.
We go quiet for a beat. We’re not weak, none of us are. But even the strongest factions can’t afford to have their operations disrupted by petty little games like this. This is going to cost us, and it’s going to cause some friction. The kind that doesn’t heal overnight.
“Cruxis won’t make the mistake of involving themselves in our affairs. Not after the recent events,” Amon says.
I don’t need to say anything—this is obvious. The rogues are making their presence known, and they’re more than just an annoyance. They’re pushing us, trying to get us off track.
“These miscreants are turning out to be a nuisance,” Charon mutters, his voice back to its usual cold control.
I can feel the tension, the need to act, but there’s no panic, no fear. We’ve survived worse. But this? This is about keeping the balance in place.
This is more than a few stolen weapons—it’s about the message they’re sending. The rogues are sending a clear signal, and it’s a problem we don’t need right now. What pisses me off is how they are screwing with us. They know exactly what they’re doing, stirring the pot just to get us distracted. And that’s exactly what they’ve done.
“They want us distracted,” I say, the thought forming in my mind before I can stop it. My steps are already carrying me toward the door, irritation flooding my veins.
“Why?” Charon asks, and I can hear the gears turning in his head.
“They didn’t steal the weapons for money. They stole them to divert our attention. It’s not the weapons they wanted,” I walk out of the casino, the cool night air cutting through me as my mind races, thinking about the bigger picture. "They want us to look elsewhere. And we’re falling for it."
The car door slams behind me as I climb in. I can feel the weight of the situation, but I’m not rattled. Annoyed, yes. But we’re still the ones in control. Losing the shipment won’t sink us—it’s the ripple effect that’s going to cause the friction we don’t need. Friction Iblis and Vessar can work to clear.
“Whatever their plan is, the conclusion is coming soon,” Amon says, and there’s no uncertainty in his voice.
“This could get out of hand. You sure you don’t need another hand, Devlin?” Charon asks, always the strategist, trying to think of every angle.
I grit my teeth, the frustration boiling over. “Why don’t you focus on tracking down our shipment, Vessar?”
I hang up before he can respond, dialling Yuri’s number immediately. The situation is already tense, but something keeps gnawing at me—something pulling me toward Ara. It's a sharp, insistent feeling. A pull I can't ignore, and I know I won’t feel right until I’ve seen her for myself.
There is something that doesn’t add up about the fucker who was in her home. Why did he continue to hide until I showed up? If he indeed was someone who wanted Ara, why didn’t he make any move yet? Why would he openly challenge me, knowing I would retaliate? My gut tells me that there is more to the story than I’m seeing right now.
Eight days. It’s been eight fucking days since I last saw her. Eight days of dealing with pointless shit pulling me in every damn direction. Eight days of those voices in my head snarling for her, clawing at me to give in. And now? I’m done fighting.
I should be figuring out what the hell these assassins are up to, why they’re working so hard to keep us off balance and distracted. But that can wait. Right now, I need her to see her. Need to hear her voice. Maybe—if fate’s not a complete bastard—catch that smile she had in her lab. Watch her walk up to me on her own. That’s its own kind of high. I need to check if she is alright because something tells me she isn’t.
The phone rings four times before Yuri picks up. “Boss,” he greets me, sounding calm as ever.
“Report,” I snap, keeping it short.
“Everything’s good. Her classes finished. We picked up her kid from school not long ago. She’s planning to work in the lab for a while, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You still guarding her lab?” I ask, the edge in my voice growing sharper.
“No, boss. She had to take delivery of her cell samples, and she wanted me to stay with the kid. Didn’t want him alone at this time of night.”
I grit my teeth, a surge of frustration rising. I didn’t give him an inch of room for this. Yuri was supposed to keep her under constant watch. Something doesn’t sit right. She’s supposed to be guarded, not wandering off on her own, even if she’s in her lab.
“I’m on my way,” I say, before he can say anything more.
Just as I’m about to hang up, Yuri’s voice tightens.
“There’s something else I need to report,” he says, hesitating.
“Speak,” I order, the tension tightening in my chest.
“It’s about her—"
Before he can finish, a scream cuts through the line. A blood-curdling, gut-wrenching sound that’s unmistakably hers. My dead heart kicks in my chest, but there’s no time for hesitation.
“Ara,” I say, the name more of a growl than a word. The urgency hits me like a freight train.
Yuri curses on the other end, but it’s distant—fading as I bark an order at Nico to accelerate, to get me there faster. The world tilts as I feel the panic rising in my chest, but I push it down.
It’s not fear. It’s not worry. It’s something darker. A need to burn everything to the ground if anything happens to her.
I’ll burn it all if I have to.