Chapter 920:
The shotgun blast tore through the air, but Rylie twisted aside just in time. Around her, the wealthy guests scrambled for anything they could wield—knives, fire pokers, broken glass—joining the hunt like bloodhounds unleashed.
High in the trees, Storm watched it all unfold through his scope.
“Nightingale,” he barked into his comms, “shut down their backup circuits—now!”
“It’ll take time to disable them remotely,” Nightingale replied. “And—wait. Two separate groups are converging on the villa. They’re going to meet en route.”
Storm’s breath hitched. “One of them… that’s the Costa Syndicate’s elite unit. They report directly to Deandre.”
Then it hit him.
“These people aren’t here for Deandre’s woman,” he whispered, stunned. “They’re here for him. They knew he’d come—and they followed.”
“What?” Nightingale asked. “Are they trying to protect the boss?”
Storm raised his binoculars. On the open lawn below, the two forces had already clashed. Gunfire cracked through the air.
At the front of the charge strode a man unmistakable in both bearing and brutality—Deandre Owen, the new godfather of the Costa Syndicate.
He wasn’t supposed to be on the battlefield. As the mastermind behind the syndicate, he should have commanded from the shadows. Yet here he was—leading the assault in broad daylight, in terrain with no cover, cutting down enemies with cold, regal fury.
Storm exhaled, awed. “No… he’s not being protected. He’s here to save his sister. Our boss finally has someone who’ll fight for her—not just us gutter rats.”
Nightingale’s dry voice crackled back. “Could you maybe describe yourself in slightly less… vermin-like terms?”
The backup never came. Worse, the entire sector’s comms had gone dead.
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Rylie moved like a shadow through the kill zone—swift and silent amid bursts of gunfire.
A shotgun roared behind her. The plaster column she’d just ducked behind exploded into shrapnel, dust and debris spraying across the floor.
Before she could pivot again, a voice cut through the chaos. “She’s at the staircase!”
Rylie dropped low, bullets whistling past her shoulder as she sprinted through the dining room. The table was still set, the tableware untouched, silverware gleaming coldly in the dim daylight filtering through the windows.
At the far end of the hall, a man stepped into view, blocking her path. In his grip, a fire axe glinted under the flickering overhead lights.
He was broad-shouldered, muscles coiled beneath his shirt. The way he shifted his weight—half a step back, knees bent—told her everything: trained, experienced, dangerous.
The axe came down in a vicious arc aimed at her face.
Rylie pivoted hard, narrowly dodging the blade, and drove a kick toward his ribs. But despite his bulk, he moved fast. His forearm whipped around, slamming toward her temple with enough force to crush bone.
Rylie ducked under the blow and twisted, driving her fist straight into his armpit—a nerve cluster that could buckle even the strongest men.
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