Chapter 13
The firefight lasted barely twenty minutes. The unmarked mercenaries were completely annihilated, their bodies scattered across the bloody concrete of the docks. Kieran walked slowly through the carnage, his polished leather shoes crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings. The bright sunlight illuminated the absolute destruction he had orchestrated.
He stopped beside a wounded mercenary who was desperately trying to crawl away. Kieran pressed the hot barrel of his rifle against the back of the man's knee.
"Who signed... the authorization?" Kieran asked, his volume incredibly low, entirely devoid of emotion.
The mercenary groaned in agony, coughing up blood. "It wasn't... it wasn't the Wells! We were hired by the Commission! They said you broke the treaty!"
Kieran’s eyes darkened into pitch-black voids. The revelation was profound. Miranda’s father hadn't just retaliated; he had petitioned the national Commission, the ruling body of the mafia, framing Kieran’s rejection of the alliance as an act of unwarranted aggression. The entire national syndicate was mobilizing against him.
"Thank you... for your clarity," Kieran whispered, pulling the trigger and ending the man's suffering instantly.
He holstered his weapon, standing up straight. The wind whipped off the ocean, shifting the loose strands of dark hair across his forehead. He realized he wasn't just fighting a single family anymore; he was fighting an entire empire.
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"Silas," Kieran called out calmly over the comms. "Secure the ports. And prepare the jet. We are going to New York. It is time... to clean house."
The drive back to the estate was tense, but Kieran’s mind operated with a sociopathic, calculating brilliance. He would not wait for the Commission to send another army to his doorstep. He would bring the apocalypse directly to their boardroom.
