THE RETURN OF THE HIDDEN HEIR

Chapter 009: When The Music Dies

For a while after the doors flew open, chaos reigned.

Then some began to notice the disciplined fingers around the guns, the perfect masks the men wore, and their steady muzzles despite the commotion in the club.

"These aren't locals," someone near the bar whispered in a shaking voice.

Another voice followed, sharper with recognition. "It's them. The Syndicate dogs."

The name moved through the room like a chill. It needed no repetition, as it belonged to the largest criminal syndicate in the city. They were men whose reputation alone ended conversations. They had no history of bargaining or warning, and when they were done, there were no witnesses left to speak of them.

The air in the room changed gradually, and the chaos died down. Bodies began to lower, and knees bent. People pressed backward, trying all they could to become smaller than the space they occupied.

A few tried to slip toward the side exit. But Dora stepped in front of them.

"Stay calm," she said without raising her voice.

That was enough to make them stop, trapped between the common instinct of survival and the reputation she held before them.

Frederick, on the other hand, laughed. It came out thin and brittle, but good enough to cut through the panic.

"Oh, give me a break," he said, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he pushed himself upright. His chest still burned where Derrick had driven him into the wall, but pride was a louder pain. "Do you idiots even know where you are?"

The leader of the masked men turned his head slowly toward Frederick. That alone should have shut him up.

But it didn't.

Instead, Frederick straightened up like a man used to being obeyed. "You picked the wrong place and the wrong people. You walk out now, and maybe I don't make a call. Otherwise?" He sneered. "I'll have your entire little operation erased before sun–."

He didn't get to finish.

The leader moved without warning. A single step, a pivot, and then a kick that landed squarely on Frederick's chest.

The sound was final. Frederick flew backward and hit the floor hard. Breath tore out of him in a wet, choking gasp. He curled, coughing as dark red spattered against the polished concrete.

No one laughed this time. The leader didn't even spare Frederick a second glance.

He lifted his gun, impatience creeping into his voice as he swept across the crowd with lazy menace. "I'll say it once more. We're here for Ivy Lorenzo."

His gaze sharpened. "Hand her over, or everyone here ends up worse than the jerk on the floor."

Silence swallowed the room now. People shook openly, and someone even sobbed into their hands. Eyes darted as survival narrowed their world to a single cruel equation.

Just then, Dora stepped forward. She rolled her shoulders once, as if settling into herself rather than into a fight.

"You've made your point," she said coolly. "Now leave."

A few people exhaled in relief just hearing her talk. Whispers rushed through the crowd.

"It's Dora again..."

"Thank heavens. She's got this."

Amused, the leader tilted his head. "You?"

Her lips curved faintly. "Believe me when I say you all aren't worth the effort."

Then she moved.

It should have been over quickly. It always was for her.

But these men didn't rush. They didn't swing carelessly or break formation. Two distracted, one closed distance, and another came from behind.

A blunt strike clipped her shoulder. It was hard enough to throw her off balance for half a second.

That was all they needed.

A knee drove into her ribs, and an arm locked around her throat. She twisted, struck, then broke free–only to have the butt of a gun smashed into her temple. White exploded behind her eyes.

Less than thirty seconds after she stepped in, Dora hit the floor. Then she felt a gun pressed cold against her temple.

The leader's voice dropped into an intimate and deadly tone. "Anyone else wanna dance?"

He straightened, sweeping his vicious gaze across the room. No one dared to meet his eyes now.

A shot cracked into the air. People screamed and dropped, hands over heads as panic finally broke loose in earnest.

All forms of illusion shattered completely. If Dora could fall, then no one was safe.

Someone sobbed Ivy's name and pointed to where she stood.

Another older and shaking voice said, "Please...just take her already."

The leader smiled as he found his target. He sneered. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He kicked Dora once in the chest as he passed. It was hard enough to send her rolling onto her side, breath knocking clean out of her lungs.

But he stopped just as he got to Ivy. Derrick had already stepped in front of her.

"You have three seconds," Derrick said calmly, meeting the leader's eyes. "Disappear."

A heartbeat passed, then the leader laughed. It was loud and barking, as he was genuinely entertained.

"You?" He lifted his gun and pressed the muzzle to Derrick's head with deliberate slowness. "I'm terrified. Go on–tell me. How exactly are you going to make me disappear?"

The other masked men laughed out loud then. Even Dora, gasping on the floor, stared in disbelief.

Derrick couldn't even beat her truly. He retreated at the peak of it. Now, he was bent on committing suicide.

The leader's finger tightened. "Come on!"

Derrick moved instantly. He gave no warning or dramatic wind-up. One hand snapped up, twisting the leader's wrist just enough to redirect the gun. The other came across in a sharp, brutal arc.

Just then, a crack split the air. It was the sound of the leader's neck as it broke.

His eyes went blank before his body understood it was dead. He collapsed where he stood, weight folding uselessly on the floor.

Silence slammed down. Then chaos froze.

The other masked men stared, clearly stunned. The crowd gaped, horror and awe tangling together as they processed what they were seeing.

The leader of the masked men was dead.

Derrick stood over him, breathing steady, eyes cold and calm.

"This can't be–" a small voice finally muttered, breaking the silence.