Chapter 10 - Crown of Ice and BloodCurtis scrambled into the back of his SUV, slamming the door, but before the driver could shift into gear, Roland vaulted onto the hood. With a savage, thunderous strike of his pistol butt, Roland shattered the driver-side window, dragging the terrified driver out onto the asphalt by his collar.
Curtis scrambled across the seats, trying to pull his own weapon, but Roland kicked the door wide open, dragging his former second-in-command out into the freezing mud and snow.
The two men tumbled across the frozen ground, trading brutal, bone-crunching punches. Curtis, younger and desperate, slammed his fist into Roland’s cracked ribs. Roland grunted in pain, but his raw, primal fury eclipsed every physical injury. Remembering the betrayal, the crash, and the blood of the innocent, Roland seized Curtis by the throat, pinning him beneath his knee.
Curtis gasped for air, his face turning purple, his hands clawing weakly at Roland’s iron grip.
"Please... Roland... have mercy..." Curtis choked out.
"Mercy," Roland whispered, his face inches from Curtis’s, cold and merciless as the winter storm. "Is the same mercy you showed me in the harbor?"
With one final, crushing twist, Roland neutralized the threat once and for all. He stood up slowly, wiping blood from his lip, breathing heavily as the sirens of federal law enforcement—tipped off by Silas’s encrypted backup files sent automatically to the FBI prior to his death—began wailing in the distance, converging on the harbor.
The sun began to crest over the horizon, painting the frozen Baltimore skyline in brilliant strokes of gold and crimson.
Roland turned around. Clara was standing a few feet away, watching him with calm, unshakable strength, Goliath sitting faithfully by her side. The empire was reclaimed, but the underworld had changed—and so had Roland Vance.
Three months later, The Rusty Anchor diner was gone, replaced by a sleek, upscale harborfront foundation dedicated to community revival and local protection—funded entirely by an anonymous benefactor known only through whispered legends.
At the private balcony of the Vance Tower overlooking the entire bay, Roland stood in a tailored custom suit, looking out at the shipping lanes. Beside him, Clara wore an elegant designer dress, her hand resting comfortably in his.
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"You're a hard man to get rid of, Clara Vance," Roland murmured softly, a genuine, rare smile gracing his lips.
"You too, boss," she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder as Goliath rested at their feet. "You too."
