Page 80 of Tangled In Vengeance

"Yeah, boss. Next time, give us more notice before you start blowing up shit. I’m not going to be able to hear right for a year." His figure emerges from the settling debris, coated in a film of grey but unmistakably alive.

We push off the walls, readying ourselves once more. The grenade has left a gaping hole in the middle of the hallway floor, with jagged edges and splintered wood now adding to the chaos. Cautiously avoiding the hole, we advance with a keen awareness. Our formation is tight and precise, a silent understanding among us that there can be no room for error.

I signal to Victor with a subtle gesture, my hand brushing against my weapon as we both edge around the deceivingly peaceful abyss the grenades carved out. The dance of death resumes, our movements deliberate and efficient as we sweep through the house once again, the weight of our intent clear and palpable in the air.

I barely register the sudden resurgence of gunfire before it’s upon us. Bullets zip past with lethal intent. Victor and I return fire, our movements synchronized by necessity and survival instincts rather than communication. In the fraction of a second when my attention shifts to reload, the world tilts violently. An unseen force slams into my side. An assailant tackles me, unbalancing my practiced stance, and we’re sent careening through the wall.

The structure gives way as if it's made of paper rather than plaster and wood. Splinters and dust erupt around us. There's no time to process the shock, only to react as gravity claims us both. We crash down to the first floor, landing with a thunderous impact. The floor beneath us relinquishes its integrity, and we plunge through, enveloped in a cloud of debris and disorientation. My ears ring, and for a moment, the battle above is muffled, the chaos paused by our unexpected descent. But survival is a relentless drive, and I scramble to orient myself, ready to confront the attacker despite the fall.

I stand up, drawing my weapon, ready to shoot the fucker that tackled me. Suddenly, the gun is knocked out of my hand. Pain explodes across my chest as I'm struck by a brutal kick, sending me staggering back into yet another wall. Dust and grit bite into my eyes as I struggle to straighten up, squinting through the haze.

As my vision clears, I'm met with the sinister silhouette of Luke Nightingale, the progeny of Dorian Nightingale, a man as notorious as his father. A twisted smile creeps across his face as his eyes glint with the thrill of the hunt. I face him, my resolve hardening like steel. There's no backing down. Not now. Not against him.

The distant clamor of gunfire and venomous shouting filters down through the broken floorboards, but it fades behind the curtain of my focus. I am fixed, resolutely, on the man in front of me. Luke's every breath is a taunt, his confidence sickening, but I harbor no doubt. Julian's men, Victor, and my men; they're skilled and relentless. They'll mop up Nightingale's lackeys without me. This, Luke and I, this is personal, and it's exactly where I need to be. Muscles tense, I circle, eyes locked on Luke as we both understand the unspoken truth. Only one of us is walking away from this.

“I’m going to kill you, Blackhart,” Luke snarls. “Your pretty little wife is now mine.”

My blood boils as Luke's words slither through the air, each one laced with venom. "You think you can intimidate me, Nightingale? Lay a finger on my wife, and I swear?—"

"Swear what, Damien? Your empty threats mean nothing here," he sneers, his voice dripping with malice. "I'll take your sweet wife and sell her off. Can you imagine how much she'll fetch? Especially now, with the child. I hear pregnant women have an increased appetite. She'll be quite the prize."

Clenching my fists, I fight to keep my rage in check, knowing that losing control could be fatal. "You're sick, Luke. You touch either of them and?—"

His maniacal laughter cuts me off. "Oh, and if it's a girl, your precious daughter? I've got a client with a particular taste for innocence," he says with a grotesque smile.

"Your interest in her isn't just unfortunate; it's lethal. I don't do warnings twice, and I don't share what's mine. Back off now, and you might live to see tomorrow," I spit out, feeling a surge of hatred like never before. “Keep going, and you won’t."

"Oh, but I will, Blackhart." Luke's eyes gleam with dark triumph as he circles me like a predator. "I always get what I want."

Not if I have anything to do with it. "We'll see about that," I growl, my resolve as sharp as a knife's edge. "This ends now."

Without warning, I lunge at Luke, fists aimed at his smirking face. He meets my attack with equal ferocity, blocking my strike and countering with a brutal jab to my ribs. Our dance is dangerous, a rhythmic exchange of punches and kicks, our heavy breaths punctuating each vicious connection. As our fists fly, the hunters become the hunted, each of us vying to be the last one standing.

In the narrow space cluttered with debris, a glint of steel catches my eye. Almost as if mirroring my thoughts, Luke brandishes a knife, its blade reflecting the scant light. Without hesitation, I draw my own. Our weapons flash between us as an extension of our feral intent. Metal clashes against metal as we swipe and stab, each attack with a deadly promise to end the other's life.

He is relentless, and so am I. We are two sides of the same coin, tarnished by violence and vengeance. Luke comes at me with a furious overhead strike, but I parry it aside, the force of his attack sending vibrations up my arm. I retaliate, aiming for his side, only to have my knife knocked away by the savage twist of his wrist.

Pain flares where his blade slices my shoulder, the bright sting of blood joining the mix of sweat and grit. I grab my other knife, and with narrowed eyes, I see an opening and surge forward. My blade finds purchase, cutting through fabric and skin. We are locked in a deadly embrace, and the boundary between hunter and prey is blurred as we bring our fight to its grim conclusion.

“You won’t win, Blackhart,” Luke says with a laugh.

“I won’t win?” I scoff, blood dripping from the fresh wound on my shoulder. “You’ve already lost, Luke. You just haven’t felt it yet.”

Luke’s laughter echoes through the decrepit room. The sound is sinister, maddening. “Oh, Damien. Your delusions are almost endearing. I’ll enjoy breaking you. Watching as you realize all the sordid things I’ll do to your beloved wife… And your child. It’s quite a future I have planned for them.”

I lunge forward, but it’s a feint. I want him close, want him to feel the certainty of my words. “You aren’t doing a damn thing, Luke. Not to them. Not to anyone. You’re over. You’ve forgotten who you’re fucking with."

He tightens his grip on the knife, ready for another round. But this isn’t a fight. This is a reckoning. “You think you're a wolf among sheep? I'm the goddamn reaper, Luke, and I'm here for you.”

“My dear Damien, you truly believe you’re death incarnate?” A twisted smile contorts Luke’s face as he prepares to strike. Unfortunately, his confidence is misplaced. Every moment has led to this.

“Yes,” I reply, my voice is thunder to his lightning. “And I've come to collect your soul.”

I narrow my gaze, focusing all my energy on the fight. Luke is strong, no doubt about it, but my will is ironclad, fueled by the need to reach Isabella to protect our child. Every muscle in my body is taut, ready to respond. I feint to the left, a move Luke anticipates, his grin spreading as he prepares to counter. But it's a ruse. In a flash, my true attack is underway as I spin right, exploiting a gap in his guard like a swift and silent promise.

Luke's eyes reflect a split-second of realization, a flicker of surprise that his experience and cruelty could not anticipate. My hand, clasping the knife with unerring precision, drives the blade forward. The sharp point pierces through clothing, skin, and, finally, the heart. His body goes rigid against mine. His sneer turns into a grimace. His eyes, once alight with the thrill of power and sadism, start to dim as the life within them leaves.

"I'm sorry, Isabella," I whisper, not for the life I take but for the violence she despises, the darkness that I promised to shield her from. As Luke Nightingale's strength fades away, my resolve only hardens. I will get to her. Whatever it takes.

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