Chapter 8 - WRATH OF THE LION
When I regained consciousness, the world was spinning. I was in the compound’s medical bay. Vincent was standing over me, his face pale, his eyes entirely black with a rage so profound it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.
“They took her,” I sobbed, clutching at his shirt. “Vincent, they took my baby!”
“I know,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. It was the calm before a hurricane. He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I am going to bring her back to you, Elena. I swear it on my life.”
He didn't make the trade. You don't negotiate with a dying cartel.
Vincent mobilized his entire syndicate. Within an hour, his tech team traced the GPS tracker Dante had secretly sewn into Lily’s cloth rabbit days ago. They were holding her at an abandoned shipping yard in Brooklyn—one of the ports Sophia had tried to steal through marriage.
Vincent didn't wait for nightfall. He didn't care about stealth. He rolled up to the shipping yard with a convoy of black SUVs and an army of men armed with assault rifles.
I watched the live drone feed from the war room back at the compound, my heart threatening to explode.
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Vincent walked straight to the front gates, an automatic rifle in his hands, completely unbothered by the snipers on the roof. He raised his gun and fired.
The assault was biblical. The Moretti men swarmed the yard. The gunfire on the audio feed was a continuous, deafening roar. Vincent moved through the chaos like a grim reaper, dropping Bellini soldiers with ruthless precision. He wasn't just a boss barking orders from a desk; he was the apex predator protecting his pack.
