Chapter 10 - The Reckoning Below
Maria’s jaw clenched, her eyes darting between the operatives and Harrington. With slow, agonizing reluctance, she let her pistol slip from her fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete floor.
One of the operatives kicked the weapon away, shoving Maria hard against the concrete wall and pinning her arms behind her back.
Meline stepped out from the shadows, placing herself protectively in front of her swollen belly, her eyes blazing with a fierce, defiant fury despite the wave of pain threatening to buckle her knees.
“You’re coward, Harrington,” Meline spat, her voice echoing off the damp stone walls. “You couldn't beat my father fair and square, so you destroyed his company. You couldn't break Vincent, so you tried to poison me.”
Harrington chuckled softly, taking a slow step closer. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression entirely devoid of remorse. “Your father was a sentimental fool, Meline. He believed logistics were about honesty and ledgers. Business is about power—and power belongs to those willing to pull the trigger when everyone else is looking away.”
Harrington glanced down at her stomach, a cruel, predatory gleam entering his eyes. “And that child you’re carrying? That’s the final obstacle. A biological heir to both the Whitaker legacy and the Castellano empire is something the board cannot allow to exist.”
Harrington raised a sleek, suppressed pistol from his coat pocket, leveling it straight at Meline’s chest.
“Say goodbye, my dear.”
Meline closed her eyes, a single tear cutting a clean path through the sweat on her cheek. She placed both hands over her stomach, whispering a silent prayer.
Bang.
The shot rang out—deafening and sharp in the confined stairwell.
Meline flinched, bracing for the impact. But the bullet never hit her.
Instead, Richard Harrington’s eyes went wide with shock. The suppressed pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering against the concrete. A clean, round hole appeared dead-center in the lapel of his expensive gray trench coat, just inches from his heart, as the heavy brass key-ring he kept in his pocket shattered under the kinetic force of a high-powered round.
From the top of the stairwell, framed by the harsh white light of the hallway above, a towering silhouette emerged.
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Vincent Castellano stood at the landing, his bespoke suit ruined by rain and sweat, his face carved from pure, unadulterated vengeance. In his right hand, a heavy-caliber firearm smoked softly in the damp air.
“You missed your window, Harrington,” Vincent’s voice reverberated down the stairwell like the tolling of a death bell. “And now, you’re going to watch me take everything you love.”
