Chapter 6 - THE RECKONING AT THE MANSIONBack at the mansion, Viktor Vance was pouring himself a second glass of scotch, entirely unaware that his grand victory had just been dismantled.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my winter garden, admiring the rain falling over his newly acquired city. Leo stood a few feet away, checking his watch with a smug grin.
“By now, the oxygen in that vault is nearly gone,” Leo remarked, pouring himself a drink as well. “End of an era, Viktor. The Harbor King is dead.”
“He was always too stubborn for his own good,” Viktor chuckled, raising his glass. “A toast to our new—”
The heavy oak and iron double doors at the entrance of the winter garden didn't just open.
They exploded inward.
Splinters of wood and iron rained across the marble floor as the doors were smashed apart by the armored bumper of my Maybach SUV, which had somehow bypassed the estate’s outer gates and driven straight through the mansion’s front foyer and into the garden.
Viktor’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering into a thousand pieces against the marble.
“What the hell?!” Viktor shrieked, drawing his golden-plated pistol.
The driver's side door of the Maybach swung open.
Slowly, deliberately, a pair of heavy leather shoes stepped down onto the floor.
Then came the trousers. Then the tailored coat.
And finally, Caleb Marino—standing at full height, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes burning with a cold, absolute fury—stepped out of the vehicle and walked toward the center of the garden under his own power.
Leo dropped his glass. His face drained of all color, his jaw hitting the floor as he stared at me as if I were a literal demon risen from hell.
“B-Boss…?” Leo stammered, taking a panicked step backward. “That’s… that’s impossible. The doctors said—”
“The doctors were idiots, Leo. Just like you,” I said, my voice echoing off the glass ceiling.
I took another step forward. My legs still burned with fierce, tearing pain, but every step felt like driving a stake through the heart of my enemies.
Viktor raised his golden pistol, his hand shaking so violently he could barely aim. “Shoot him! Kill him right now!” he screamed at his remaining mercenaries scattered around the room.
Before Viktor’s men could even lift their rifles, red laser dots appeared on their chests.
From the shadows of the indoor trees, dozen of my elite loyal guards—men who had remained faithful when the rats jumped ship—stepped out, their assault rifles locked and loaded.
“Drop your weapons,” I commanded quietly.
They didn't hesitate. Every gun hit the marble floor with a metallic clatter.
Viktor backed up until his spine hit the glass wall of the garden, cornered like a rat. “Caleb… wait, we can talk about this! It was just business! Viktor Vance can make you richer than—”
“You didn't just play business, Viktor,” I interrupted, closing the distance between us until I was standing right in front of him. I looked down into his terrified, sweating face. “You killed my wife. You rigged her car.”
Viktor swallowed hard, panic flashing in his eyes. “I… I don't know what you’re talking about!”
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I didn't answer with words. I raised my right fist—the same hand that had spent eight years gripping the wheels of a wheelchair—and drove it straight into Viktor’s jaw with the accumulated fury of a decade.
Viktor collapsed like a broken doll, unconscious before he even hit the floor.
