The city never slept, but Denilson felt as though he had. He sat in the driver’s seat, unmoving, the mysterious call still echoing in his ears. The lost son finally awakens. Words that felt less like a greeting and more like a judgment.His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. His heart demanded he storm back to the mansion, to tear the sheets from Jenna’s bed and expose her hypocrisy to every one of her smug relatives.To show them he wasn’t the servant they believed. But another voice, quieter, colder, whispered: And what then?Would that undo five years of humiliation? Would that return what she had stolen his dignity, his love, his very self?, No.The river glimmered beneath the moonlight, mocking him with its serenity. Denilson exhaled shakily, letting the rage settle into something sharper. Not forgiveness. Not despair. Something else, Resolve.His phone buzzed again. Same number, He answered without hesitation. “Who are you?”This time, the voice didn’t

The blade in Denilson’s hand was slick with blood. He stared at it, chest heaving, as silence thundered in the chamber. All eyes burned into him, waiting. Judging. Measuring.At the head of the table, the silver-haired man stood, his presence filling the room like a storm. “So, Denilson Franfurt,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Will you walk out that door as the beaten dog they made of you… or will you stay, and rise as your father’s son?”Denilson’s pulse hammered. Images flashed in his mind Jenna’s mocking sneer, her family’s laughter, the sting of humiliation etched into every meal, every day, every year. The glass cutting into his hand, the wine staining the floor, her body in another man’s arms.His grip tightened on the blade, “I…” His voice faltered, raw. He swallowed hard, forcing strength into the cracks. “I won’t be their dog anymore.” The silver-haired man’s eyes gleamed. “Then kneel.”Denilson’s legs felt heavy, but he dropped to one knee, the blade still clutched in

The crack of gunfire split the air, Denilson dove instinctively, the pistol clutched tight in his hand as bullets shattered crates around him. Splinters bit into his skin. The debtor screamed, diving under the desk as papers and cash scattered like confetti.Marcus didn’t flinch. He stood tall, his silver hair gleaming even under muzzle flashes, his eyes sharp and unyielding. “Cover him!” he barked to his guards, who unleashed return fire with ruthless precision.Denilson’s heart pounded in his ears. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled his lungs. He had never been in a gunfight. Never fired at a living target, Yet now, death rained around him, demanding he choose — freeze or fight.One of the attackers charged through the doorway, a pistol raised. Denilson’s instincts screamed. He raised his weapon, hands trembling, and pulled the trigger.The recoil jolted through his arms. The man staggered, eyes wide with shock, before crumpling to the floor. Denilson’s stomach lurched. He had just

Morning sunlight streamed through Jenna Tuna’s penthouse windows, casting her in golden light. She stretched lazily across silk sheets, her lover still asleep beside her. The taste of wine lingered on her tongue, her head buzzing with smug satisfaction, Life, she thought, was good.Her phone buzzed with messages. She scrolled through them with a smirk family updates, society gossip, Denilson’s name buried in mundane reminders of bills and schedules. She didn’t bother replying. Why should she? He was useful only as a wallet, a shield, and a punching bag.Pouring herself another glass of wine before noon, she hummed softly. She never noticed the shadow parked outside her building in a black sedan.Victor D’Angelo leaned against the leather seat, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His scarred face twisted into something between a grin and a snarl as he watched Jenna through binoculars.“So this is the queen who spat on the heir,” he muttered. “A perfect pawn.”, His lieutenant frow

Gunfire ripped through the steel mill, shattering the silence into chaos.Denilson dove behind a rusted beam as bullets sparked against metal. Carver returned fire, cursing as shadows flitted through the rafters. Victor’s men poured lead from above, their laughter mixing with the crack of rifles.Jenna screamed, bound to the chair in the middle of the storm.Denilson’s chest burned, every instinct at war. He could charge Victor, put a bullet in the man who killed his father. End it here. Or he could protect the woman who betrayed him the pawn Victor had thrown on the board.Marcus’s words rang in his head. Weakness or leverage?,Another bullet whizzed past his ear, snapping the thought short. “Move!” Carver shouted, dragging a body down from the catwalk. “We’re pinned!”Denilson gritted his teeth, then surged forward, firing into the rafters. One man fell, his scream echoing before the sickening thud of his body. Denilson’s blood pounded. He fired again, again, carving space through t