Chapter 3
820words
His shirt was torn, revealing a long gash where the bullet had grazed his arm, leaving an angry, scorched wound. As I cleaned it with alcohol, his sculpted muscles tensed briefly, but he didn't make a sound. In the soft lamplight, his athletic physique displayed well-defined contours, radiating raw vitality—so different from Victor's refined elegance that bore the dignified weight of experience.
"Does it hurt?" I asked quietly.
"Not when it's taken for you," he replied, his voice husky, eyes smoldering as they met mine.
After bandaging him, I started to rise, but he suddenly caught my wrist. With one powerful tug, he pulled me into his lap. Caught off balance, I fell against his chest, instantly enveloped by the scent of blood mingled with his masculine musk.
"Ada," he murmured, his hot breath tickling my ear, "we're partners, aren't we? I'll always protect you."
My thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. Being in his arms felt alien yet dangerously tempting. He was my ally, my protector—I had no logical reason to pull away.
But as his lips descended toward mine, Victor's face flashed unbidden in my mind, along with the ghost-sensation of his gentle, comforting embrace. Guilt seized my heart like an icy fist.
I turned my head slightly, dodging his kiss.
Cedric's body went rigid, but he quickly released me, his face resuming its mask of cool composure, as if the moment had never happened. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be challenging."
I retreated to my room. Sleep eluded me entirely that night.
With Alan eliminated, Cedric's stock in the organization skyrocketed. His decisive action and the tale of being "wounded" while protecting me won him substantial backing. Without missing a beat, he turned his attention to our next target—Vieri Bray.
"Vieri is our greatest challenge." In the study, Cedric tapped Vieri's dossier. "He never reveals his cards, yet his fingerprints are on half of Victor's operations and decisions. He's a viper hiding in shadows—we need to force him into the light."
To gather intelligence, Cedric sent me to Vieri's home bearing gifts, under the guise of "expressing gratitude for Victor's lifetime of mentorship."
Vieri's home was tucked away on a quiet street—an unassuming house that surprised me with its modesty. A soft-spoken woman, presumably his wife, answered the door.
As I explained my visit and prepared to enter, a child's bright laughter rang out from the backyard. Drawn to the sound, I glanced over and witnessed a scene that would forever alter my perception.
Vieri—the taciturn, brooding strategist with eyes like bottomless wells—was kneeling on the grass, letting a pigtailed little girl plaster his face with colorful stickers. His expression held a tenderness I'd never imagined possible as he made playful puppy noises that sent his daughter into fits of giggles.
In that moment, the "villain" in my mind began to crumble.
But once set in motion, the machinery of war doesn't stop for anyone's tender moments.
Cedric's trap was masterful. He manufactured evidence suggesting Vieri was siphoning assets and planning to defect, then bribed one of Vieri's trusted men to lure him to an abandoned warehouse at the docks.
It was another cold, miserable night, eerily similar to Alan's last. Vieri immediately recognized the trap, but showed no panic—just regarded us with calm resignation, as if he'd long expected this end.
After a short, brutal firefight, all of Vieri's men lay dead. He himself took multiple hits and slumped against a shipping container, blood pouring from his chest.
Cedric approached, looking down at him with the cold superiority of an executioner: "Vieri, it's over."
Vieri coughed blood, ignoring Cedric to fix his gaze on me. His eyes were no longer inscrutable but held a complex clarity—a mixture of pity and bitter irony.
He began coughing violently, and when Cedric grimaced and stepped back, Vieri used his final strength to rasp: "Ada... your birthday present... Victor arranged it months ago... at the central post office..."
His voice faded, his body slumping further, his final words barely audible.
"...collected... by a 'good Samaritan'..."
With that, his head lolled to one side, and he was gone.
The warehouse fell deathly silent. Cedric came over, draped his arm around my shoulders, and spoke with barely concealed triumph: "It's done. Don't let a dead man's ravings get to you."
I nodded, but my body had gone rigid.
Birthday present? Victor? Good Samaritan?
The words circled in my mind like an incantation. I told myself this was just Vieri's final gambit—a strategist's last attempt to sow doubt.
But when I glanced back at Vieri's still-open eyes, I sensed he'd given me something more devastating than any weapon—a seed of doubt that could unravel everything.
