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THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE CUT THE PREGNANT MAID'S HAIR IN FRONT OF FORTY GUESTS AND LEARNED TOO LATE WHO THE BABY'S FATHER REALLY WAS / Chapter 7 / 8

Chapter 7 - The Final Confrontation at the Private AirstripThe private tarmac of Narragansett Bay Aviation was lashed by freezing coastal winds.

A twin-engine Gulfstream jet idled on the runway, its turbines screaming against the gale. Standing near the bottom of the boarding stairs was Arthur Whitlock, holding a heavy revolver, and beside him—held tightly by his remaining armed guard—was Hannah Brooks.

Her hands were bound behind her back with heavy zip-ties, her face pale, but her chin remained defiant as the wind whipped her dark, jagged hair across her eyes.

"Drop your weapon, Carver!" Arthur screamed over the roar of the jet engines as Daniel’s black SUV tore across the tarmac, screeching to a halt ten yards away.

Daniel stepped out of the vehicle, his left shoulder stained dark with blood, his face carved from granite. He held no gun in his hands, walking forward into the freezing wind with an aura of absolute, terrifying dominion.

"Let her go, Arthur," Daniel said. His voice carried effortlessly over the wind. "This is between you and me."

"This is about my legacy!" Arthur shrieked, pressing the barrel of the revolver against Hannah’s temple. She didn't flinch; she stared straight into Daniel’s eyes with unwavering trust. "You took my shipping lanes! You raided my pier! And now you think you can take my daughter's place with a penniless servant and her bastard brat?"

"She’s not a servant, Arthur," Daniel said, taking another slow, deliberate step forward. "And that child isn't a bastard. That is my blood. The true heir to everything I own."

Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in shock. "What... what are you talking about?"

"I’m saying," Daniel whispered, closing the final distance with terrifying speed, "you kidnapped the mother of my future wife."

Before Arthur could pull the trigger, a sharp crack echoed across the tarmac—not from a pistol, but from the rifle barrel of Martin Hale, positioned in the sniper nest of the lead SUV.

Arthur’s revolver spun out of his hand as the bullet shattered his wrist.

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The heavy silver fork slipped from my fingers, clattering sharply against the gold-rimmed porcelain of my dinner plate.

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The heavy mahogany door of the Fairmont Copley suite clicked shut with a muffled, expensive thud.

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At the exact same moment, Daniel lunged forward like a striking panther, slamming Arthur into the icy tarmac with bone-crushing force. The guard holding Hannah made a move to grab his rifle, but Daniel’s boot came down hard on his wrist, snapping it instantly before a second shot from Martin’s rifle dropped the mercenary in his tracks.

The airstrip fell deathly quiet, save for the screaming wind and the idle roar of the jet engines.

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