“Oh, oh, oh!” Victor exclaimed, the memory of the old couple snapping into focus. How could he forget them? He had personally disciplined them several times for failing to weed the Crane family’s yam farm on time. His heart faltered, though his face remained a mask of stone.Warren’s parents. At last, a point of leverage. But who would have thought those old couples were his parents? “Where?” he asked sharply.“In the Confraternity’s stronghold, a fortified estate on Dragon Island,” Caleb answered. “They’re protected like royalty. But if we can reach them, we can get to Warren…” His voice trailed off, eyes glinting with malice, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.Victor’s mind raced. Capturing Warren’s parents could force him to his knees. But the Ayeaxemen Moon Sect’s involvement complicated matters—promising bloodshed, chaos, and a tricky balance of alliances. Victor’s power, gave him an edge, but even he couldn’t breach the Calabrese Confraternity’s stronghold alone, even wit

Meanwhile, an emergency alert buzzed through the devices of Ironspire’s city leaders, summoning them to an impromptu meeting. Trump, still seated in his lavish living room, received the message, his mind racing. What could have happened? An emergency meeting of this scale meant something grave—could war be looming? Determined to find out, Trump called for his personal guard to prepare his car while he hurried upstairs to change into formal attire.Tompolo, leader of the Pyrate Regiment, received the same urgent message, as did Mr. Jack, the kingpin of the Viridian Gentlemen. No elite, power broker, or political leader—past or present—was excluded. The message’s tone was dire, prompting them all to prepare swiftly.The meeting was set in Blackrock, Ironspire’s secret chamber where critical decisions were made.In no time, seventy-nine prominent figures gathered in the chamber’s meeting room, with Trump and Tompolo seated across from each other at the long table.The National Security

The heart of Ironspire City pulsed with a restless energy, its neon-lit streets humming beneath a sky bruised purple by twilight. Warren navigated the sleek, obsidian Bentley through the throng of pedestrians, the car’s low growl cutting through the cacophony of honks and street vendors. Beside him sat Beatrice, a vision in a crimson gown that clung to her hourglass figure like a lover’s embrace. The dress shimmered under the city lights, accentuating curves that could make any heart stutter. Yet, to Warren, her beauty was a pale shadow compared to Cassandra’s radiant glow—a flame he couldn’t extinguish, no matter how hard his parents tried to douse it with this arranged date.Warren’s kaftan, a vibrant cascade of sapphire and gold, set him apart in the sea of tailored suits and cocktail dresses flooding the upscale district. The traditional Nigerian garment flowed around him, its intricate embroidery catching the light as he stepped out of the car and offered Beatrice a hand. Her fin

Mr. Casanova’s eyes gleamed with predatory amusement as he leaned forward, his potbelly straining against his unbuttoned suit. His voice slithered through the tension, smooth and venomous. “What happened? Why do I want her?” Warren had asked, He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made Beatrice’s skin crawl. “Let’s just say your little date owes me more than she can ever repay.” Warren’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing as he pieced together the fragments of Beatrice’s terror and Casanova’s smug certainty. The situation snapped into focus: Beatrice was trapped in a web spun by this kingpin, her life a collateral for a debt she couldn’t escape. Casanova’s smirk widened, his cigar flaring as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “So, move away,” he drawled, his tone deceptively casual. “I’m in a good mood—I closed a billion-dollar deal this evening, so you’re lucky. I’d rather not hurt you.” But Warren was a statue of defiance, his sapphire-and-gold kaftan a stark contrast to the mono

Meanwhile at the Coastal City General Hospital stood like a gleaming monolith against the city’s jagged skyline, its glass façade reflecting the churning gray of the Pacific. Inside, the finest suite on the top floor was a fortress of sterile luxury, reserved for the elite—none more so than Nicolas Rashford, heir to the Rashford dynasty, the Absolute Monarchs of Coastal City. The room was a paradox of opulence and suffering: pristine white walls, a panoramic view of the ocean, and the incessant *beep-beep* of monitors tracking Nicolas’s vitals. He lay in the hospital bed, his legs encased in casts, his chiseled face twisted with a rage that burned hotter than the pain in his shattered bones. “Goddamn bastard Warren,” he snarled, his voice a low growl that reverberated off the walls. “He humiliated me. Put me in this situation.” His fists clenched, knuckles whitening against the starched sheets. Every beep of the monitor was a reminder of his defeat, a disgrace and shaming at the