Chapter 925:
Jennifer had curled into herself, rocking silently, terror stealing her voice.
Outside the shattered doorway, Deandre glanced over his shoulder at Rylie. His voice dropped, rough with tension. “Aren’t you scared?”
Rylie looked at his broad, bloodied back—the solid wall between her and chaos—and shook her head.
That was when his rage erupted. “You should be!” he snapped, whirling on her. “Do you think this is a game? Your life isn’t some damn joke!”
Rylie’s chest tightened. She lowered her lashes. “Sorry, Deandre. I truly thought I could handle it alone.”
Deandre’s expression stayed firm, but his eyes softened. He couldn’t bring himself to scold her further. He knew her heart was still mending. Every choice she made came from kindness—from a need to protect, not to harm.
He sighed and pulled her into a steady embrace, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. “The moment you helped me bring down Lochlan’s son, I knew how capable you were. We should’ve been the ones protecting you—but instead, you’ve been shielding us.”
His voice dropped, rough with resolve. “This time, let us return the favor.”
Rylie looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. “You already have. You showed me what family feels like.”
Deandre hugged her tighter, just for a heartbeat. Then the gunfire below surged closer, sharp and relentless. His gaze locked onto hers. “Then let my men see the strength of my sister. I’ll lead you out of this.”
A faint smile touched Rylie’s lips. She took the handgun he offered, checked the chamber and magazine with practiced precision. The motion flowed as naturally as breath.
Deandre moved first. His men followed in disciplined formation as he cleared the stairwell, firing controlled bursts to pin down guards flanking their descent.
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“Stay low,” he barked.
His orders were crisp—measured, not reckless. He wanted control, not chaos.
After all, everyone in that villa carried influence. Too many deaths would only invite vengeance upon the Costa Syndicate. So their shots stayed clean, meant to disable rather than kill. Only when forced into a corner did they pull the trigger with lethal intent.
And the hired guards? Once their mobility was gone, so was their will to fight. They were paid to stand watch—not to die.
Rylie stayed close behind Deandre, slipping between columns and ducking into alcoves for cover. Her aim was swift and exact. Within minutes, three enemies were down.
Her shooting angles were sharp and unpredictable, her movements impossible to anticipate. Every bullet could have been fatal… yet she held back. Restraint over bloodshed. She even shielded a few of Deandre’s men when crossfire broke too close,
At first, some of the syndicate’s elite had doubted her worth. They’d whispered that the godfather’s devotion to his sister weakened their defenses, leaving their stronghold exposed for the sake of one woman.
But now? As they watched her—calm under fire, precise as a sniper, fierce as any soldier—they fell silent.
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.
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