Page 72 of The Shadow King's Brother

Gio looks at me, his eyes filled with worry.

“Don’t do this. There’s a shit load of men out there, heavily armed.”

He doesn't want me to go alone. This isn't how we do things.

But I have no choice. Nobody from my team is dying today.

No one.

“I’ll be fine. Fuckers won’t know what hit them.”

I slam a fresh magazine into my weapon. Every second counts.

“Don’t get killed, friend,” Gio says.

“Not planning on it.”

I get up; my steps are uneven, and my shoulder is throbbing. But I don't stop. I can't stop.

I hear gunfire behind me, rounds punching into the crumbling brick, spitting dust into the air. I don't look back. Can't. My eyes are locked on the rusted metal door ahead.

Another shot cracks past my ear as I lunge for the door. I slam into it, shoulder-first, forcing it open with a splintering groan. I dive inside and throw my weight against it, twisting the lock with shaking fingers. A busted chair waits in the corner—I drag it over, jam it under the handle. It won’t hold. Not for long. But it’ll buy me seconds. Maybe that’s all I need.

The hallway yawns ahead, narrow and stinking of rot. Damp wood. Mold. The walls are lined with doors, their paint peeling like old scabs. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, humming like they’re alive—and just as ready to die.

“What the fuck is this?” I mutter, my voice hollow in the stillness. “A horror movie?”

My boots thud on the concrete floor, each step louder than the last, each one dragging like I’m sinking.

Every shadow stretches too long.

Every sound has teeth.

And then I see her.

Or what's left of her.

The body on the floor. Twisted. Bloody.

Susan Galli?

A thick trail of blood snakes through the hallway, as if she’d been dragged from somewhere deeper inside.

I raise my gun, heart pounding, and move in closer.

She’s slumped against the far wall, lifeless. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling, frozen in some blank expression of surprise. A single, clean bullet hole marks the back of her head.

Dead. Cold. Gone.

Who the hell did this?

My stomach clenches, and a wave of nausea rises in my throat. Something isn't right.

If she's dead. Then who the hell is running this show? Who is pulling the strings?

A slow, deliberate clap echoes through the hallway. I whirl around, snapping my gun up, adrenaline surging through me like a jolt of electricity.

A man steps out from under a stairwell, his smirk lazy and self-assured. His gun, a polished Glock, held casually at his side.

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