She Used Me for a Dare… Now I Own Her Mother

Chapter 563: The Wolf in the Dirt

"Vance, go help them finish this clown," the young man commanded, flicking his wrist toward a third hitman standing to his left... a broad, scarred brute holding a heavy steel baton.

Vance stepped onto the crushed slate without a word.

Karl’s breath hitched, a cold spike of dread driving deep into his gut. He didn’t need to see the brute swing to know what he was up against.

The low center of gravity, the relaxed shoulders, the dead calm in the eyes... Vance wasn’t expendable muscle. He was a veteran killer, every bit as trained, hardened, and dangerous as Karl was.

Against one, Karl had a fighting chance. Against three? He was done for.

Survival instinct took over. Karl abandoned all thoughts of fighting, shifting his weight to bolt toward the far railing and throw himself into the dark treeline below. Broken bones were better than a grave.

He didn’t make it two steps.

The two hitmen anticipated the break. The man with the ruined knee threw his entire weight forward in a desperate, low tackle, locking his arms around Karl’s thighs. At the same second, the second man hooked an arm around Karl’s neck from behind, dragging him backward and killing his momentum.

"Get off!" Karl snarled, hammering a vicious elbow into the man’s ribs.

He broke the headlock, but it was already too late. Vance was in the pocket.

The brute’s fist drove straight into Karl’s solar plexus.

It didn’t feel like a punch; it felt like getting blindsided by a speeding truck. The breath exploded from Karl’s lungs in a dry, agonizing gasp. His vision went white. Before he could double over, Vance’s second punch slammed flush into Karl’s jaw.

Bone clicked violently against bone. Karl’s head snapped sideways, his teeth spraying blood onto the wet gravel. His legs turned to liquid, the world tilting into a deafening ring.

"Grab him," Vance muttered, his voice flat and bored. "Pin the bastard against the stone so I can break his legs."

The two hitmen hauled Karl backward, wrenching his arms behind him until his shoulders nearly popped, shoving him down onto his knees against the balustrade.

Blood poured from Karl’s mouth, dripping onto his ruined shirt. He couldn’t lift his head. His ribs burned with every shallow, desperate gasp, his vision tunneling into black.

’This is it,’ Karl thought through the concussive haze ringing in his skull. ’I’m done for.’

The promise of Cole’s money, the foolish hope that an old, ruined tycoon held some secret ace to flip the board... he had ignored his gut, hesitated like an amateur, and bought a ticket straight to his own execution. If he had just leaped that railing five minutes ago, he’d be bruised and limping in the trees right now.

Instead, he was on his knees, waiting to be butchered like cattle.

Fifty paces away, melted into the deep shadows of the stone trellises, two pairs of eyes tracked every second of the slaughter.

Alex watched with keen, predatory curiosity, his gaze darting between the battered mercenary and the quiet old man by the railing.

Beside him, Naomi’s breath turned ragged. A tight knot of agitation twisted in her chest, her fingernails biting so hard into her palms that she broke skin. Seeing her husband kneeling in his own blood, broken and defenseless, made every nerve in her body scream to draw her weapon and break cover.

Yet she didn’t twitch an inch.

She wasn’t an amateur. She knew stepping out into a firing squad wouldn’t save Karl; it would only blow her cover and ensure she shared the exact same fate on the wet slate. Swallowing the bitter bile in her throat, she forced herself to stand dead still and watch him bleed.

Back on the terrace, Vance gave Karl no time for regrets.

Stepping forward with cold, measured weight, the brute raised the heavy steel baton with both hands, and brought it down toward Karl’s kneecap with enough force to shatter the joint to powder.

Karl squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth and bracing for the sickening crack of shattered bone.

But the blow never landed.

The rushing steel stopped dead in mid-air. No impact, no vibration, no bounce. The force simply died, as if the baton had slammed into a mountain of solid stone.

When the agony didn’t come, Karl cautiously opened his eyes.

Two inches from his knee, a single, pale hand was clamped around the solid steel, holding it completely motionless.

Raymond Cole stood casually beside him, holding the heavy steel with nothing more than his thumb and two fingers. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his expression calm, looking down at the hitmen like an elder chiding misbehaving children.

"Now, now," Cole murmured softly into the chill of the wind. "Didn’t I tell you boys to show some patience?"

Vance stared down in dumbfounded horror, his grip slackening on the baton. He had put all his weight behind that swing... enough to snap bone like dry kindling. Yet the old man was holding it with bare fingers, not even breathing hard.

Kneeling right beneath them, Karl’s mind completely short-circuited. He looked from the crushed steel to Cole’s calm face, unable to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. An old, retired tycoon was holding off a hardened killer with two fingers.

Before anyone could say a word, the air behind them shifted.

One of the two silent bodyguards standing beside the young heir moved. He didn’t run... he blurred across the terrace like a launched missile.

A heavy, leather-clad fist slammed straight into Cole’s jaw.

The sheer impact sounded like an artillery shell hitting concrete. Cole was ripped off his feet, his body rocketing sideways through the air before crashing violently into a stone flower planter, shattering the masonry into chunks of gravel.

"I knew there was something weird about you," the bodyguard said, his voice flat and cold as he shook out his knuckles. "You’ve got some skill, old man... but it’s not enough to save you."

The man didn’t give Cole a single second to recover.

He crossed the distance in two explosive strides. Just as Cole pushed his hands against the broken stone to stand, the bodyguard’s boot drove violently into his ribs. The sickening thud sent Cole rolling across the wet slate.

The bodyguard followed like a relentless machine. He grabbed Cole by the back of his suit jacket, dragged him up, and drove a savage knee into his stomach, followed by a heavy elbow that caught the old man across the temple.

Cole offered no resistance. He was battered back and forth like a ragdoll, his body bouncing off the stone railing before crashing limp onto the terrace floor. Blood smeared across the wet slate.

The bodyguard delivered one final, brutal kick to Cole’s ribs.

Cole didn’t flinch. His arms fell flat to the stones, his head loll to the side, completely motionless.

The bodyguard paused, staring down at the still body to make sure the fight was gone. Satisfied, he reached down, gathered a fistful of Cole’s torn collar, and effortlessly hoisted the limp old man into the air.

He dragged Cole across the crushed slate like a sack of trash, tossing him down onto the gravel right at the young man’s feet.

Cole landed with a dull, heavy thud on the crushed gravel, his torn suit soaked in grime and blood.

The young man stared down at him, his chest swelling with pure, intoxicating satisfaction. The humiliation from the ballroom, the rage from being mocked in front of his crew—all of it washed away, replaced by the sheer high of absolute control.

He offered the bodyguard a brief, approving nod. "Good work."

Tucking his hands casually, the young man slowly crouched down on his haunches right beside Cole’s battered head. He tilted his chin, drinking in the sight of the swollen eye, the blood dripping from the old man’s split lip, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"Well, well, well," the young man chuckled softly, shaking his head with mock sympathy. "Look at you."

He drew his heavy pistol, resting the cold, flat steel against Cole’s temple for a beat, letting the chill sink into the old man’s skin. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged the barrel down Cole’s jawline, over his torn lapel, until the round muzzle settled dead-center against his chest... pressing right over his thumping heart.

The young man leaned in closer, until his breath brushed Cole’s ear.

"Didn’t I tell you, old bastard?" he whispered, his smirk widening into a vicious sneer. "What happened to all that fire? What happened to teaching the younger generation some manners?"

He pushed the muzzle a fraction deeper into Cole’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of the heartbeat beneath the fabric.

"A stray dog shouldn’t covet silk... isn’t that what you told me?" The young man let out a harsh, mocking snort. "Look where you are now, grandpa. In the dirt. Under my boot. Right where a mangy stray belongs."

He tapped the steel against Cole’s chest, grinning like a butcher admiring his meat.

"Now... where did that sharp tongue go? You had so much to say about her hands feeling like silk. Tell me, old man... how does cold steel feel?"