BOOK 2
Trapped within the iron grip of the notorious Morroto family, Veronica Garcia's fate hangs precariously in the balance. Days bleed into nights in the suffocating darkness of her prison, where despair threatens to consume her spirit. Each pass...
TW- 🔞🔞 Please do NOT read this if you find gore triggering. I personally find this chapter Very gory and sickening towards the end. You have been warned.
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THESCENE, glinting off the polished marble floors and the patrons' expensive jewellery. The laughter and chatter of the wealthy elite floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of a live jazz band. The target's table, draped in white linen, was laden with gourmet dishes and fine wine.
My gaze locked onto him, ignoring the superficial glamour of his surroundings. He sat back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he conversed with his companions. His hand rested possessively on the thigh of one of the escorts, her expression carefully neutral. The other women fawned over him, their eyes glancing occasionally towards the exit, hoping for an early end to their night.
Adjusting the scope slightly, I zeroed in on his forehead, my finger hovering over the trigger. The background noise of the city faded, replaced by the rhythmic beating of my heart. My breathing slowed, each inhale and exhale timed with the calm precision born from years of practice. The world shrunk down to just the two of us: predator and prey.
His arrogant smirk widened as he lifted his glass in a toast, oblivious to the red dot dancing on his forehead. For a moment, I imagined the chaos that would follow. The panic in the restaurant, the screams of his escorts, the frantic calls for help. But those were distant thoughts, secondary to the cold focus of the task at hand.
With a final, steady breath, I squeezed the trigger.
His head practically exploded, sending a gruesome spray of blood and bone fragments splattering across the pristine tablecloth and the horrified women beside him. Their shrieks pierced the air, mingling with the sudden, chaotic uproar that erupted within the restaurant. The once elegant atmosphere descended into pandemonium as diners scrambled to flee, overturning chairs and sending plates crashing to the floor.
The Target's lifeless body slumped forward, knocking over the delicate crystal glass he had just toasted with. His security detail, momentarily paralyzed by shock, quickly snapped into action. They rushed to his side, their faces twisted in disbelief and fear as they struggled to comprehend the scene before them.
One guard barked orders into his radio, calling for backup, while another desperately tried to shield the remaining patrons and escort them to safety. The remaining women, now drenched in blood, stumbled away from the table, their faces pale and eyes wide with terror.
From my vantage point, I watched the chaos unfold with a detached satisfaction. The deed was done. I disassembled my rifle with methodical precision, each movement practiced and efficient. The sounds of sirens in the distance grew louder, a reminder that it was time to leave.
I packed my rifle into its sleek, black case, ensuring each piece fit perfectly into its designated spot. There was something therapeutic about the process, a ritual that steadied my mind and sharpened my focus. The click of the case shutting was a signal that it was time to move.
