The Son-In-Law’s 99 Days Of Deception

Nine hours earlier.

Ever wondered how many minutes it would take for a pill of arsenic to kill you?

Twenty? Twenty-five?

Killian should know. He could already feel the pill’s toxin spreading through his veins.

You could call it a calculated gamble. But in this game, a man had to look death directly in the eye.

Seventy-two hours after walking out of a maximum-security prison, Killian stood in the center of his safehouse, taking one last look at the wall. Photographs, names, precise locations, and a spiderweb of red strings mapped out every single monster connected to his wife and kid's assassination.

He didn't just remember that day on the family boat; he relived it every time he closed his eyes. Eleven years ago, celebrating Mike, his son's birthday. The sudden flash of light. The boat splintered into kindling, his pregnant wife torn apart, his son's small body swallowed by the dark water, and Killian—left with catastrophic injuries and a 11 years sentence because his wealthy in-laws, the Lancasters, needed a scapegoat to protect their name. Who listens to a poor man's pleas when a billionaire family points fingers?

He recalled screaming, struggling and visibly shaken. Begging them to explain. Making them look him in the eye while he asked who killed his family.

For eleven years, his mind had burned with a single, consuming obsession: getting inside the ‘Temple’. The murderers' den.

He wanted the killer—The Priest.

The leader of the Gospel—The man who had turned murder into a business and hidden it behind the walls of a ‘temple’.

With a final, jagged breath, Killian ripped the red strings from the wall, tearing the photographs down in fistfuls. He dumped the damning evidence into a metal basin, struck a match, and watched his entire eleven-year plan go up in smoke.

The past could burn.

He has memorised the essential names and information.

Present time…

Killian’s body jolted, his eyes flying open as a bucket of freezing water slammed across his face.

He tried to lunge forward, but cold, heavy metal bonds locked him tight to a wooden chair. For a disorienting second, his brain stuttered.

Slowly, he scanned the room. Eight men stood around him.

Possibly nine. Each looking bigger than the next.

Voices sharp, foreign, and unforgiving began bouncing off the damp walls.

“Who do you work for?”

“You heard the man! Start talking, or you'll wish you stayed dead!”

“I heard you were looking for me.” A deeper voice was heard as a tall tattooed man stepped forward.

Raising his head slowly through the stinging water and lingering paralysis, Killian locked eyes with the figure standing in the dim light. At the front of the pack stood Vesper—the ruthless lieutenant who took orders directly from The Priest, the very man who had turned his life into ash.

His expression was a mix of lethal curiosity and cold suspicion.

It took him almost dying to come in contact with this man.

Killian smiled. They took the bait. He was IN. Step 1, complete.

The pill had done its job a little too well. It had knocked him out cold.

The self-administered antidote was already fighting the poison in his bloodstream. His memory of the journey here was fragmented, but the men's shouting gradually brought the previous night back into focus.

Last night, at the exclusive section of the Nova Suite, Killian had deliberately jumped into their group's encrypted conversation, demanding to see Vesper—Their Boss.

When told to back off, he caused a scene, scattered the chairs, yelled for Vesper to come out and when he didn't see who he came for, he broke a group member's nose just to get knocked out by a chair on the head.

It was a reckless move.

The same move had also made him impossible to ignore.

Now Vesper was trying to determine why he demanded to see him, whether he was a spy, an opportunist, or something considerably worse.

Were they going to leave him or kill him?

Vesper had yet to decide, so they brought him in since he was unconscious and suspicious.

Killian noticed Vesper's eyes fixed on him so carefully like he was examining a piece of math project.

No ordinary person ever got into the Priest's temple and walked out alive. The Priest wasn't just a criminal boss; to these animals and the world at large, he was a god.

But Killian? Killian had died on that boat eleven years ago. The only thing Killian DiCaprio was afraid of was failing to send these bastards to hell with him.

If he couldn't carve out his vengeance, living was a sick joke anyway.

Vesper lit his cigar and stepped in front of Killian, "Who sent you?"

Killian said nothing.

Vesper took another drag of his cigar. "I'll ask once more. Who sent you?”

It was obvious the fool didn't realize what kind of fire he was playing with.

Still, the man remained mute.

The room fell quiet.

One of the men stepped forward, but Vesper raised a hand to stop him.

Killian noticed and smirked slightly.

The men were permitted to threaten him. They were not permitted to decide what happened to him.

Only Vesper could do that.

“Firstly,” Killian rasped, his voice dripping with an eerie, unbothered calm as he lifted his chin, “take the chains off.”

Vesper dragged slowly on his Cuban cigar, narrowing his eyes. “You don't get to feel comfortable in the Gospel's territory until I say so. 10 sec, talk or I'll make you.”

Killian could feel the poison's effects lingering in his body. He had prepared for the possibility that the plan would go wrong. Preparation, however, was not the same as certainty.

He might have misjudged the dose.

He might have misjudged the plan.

And if the antidote failed, he would die in a room full of strangers before ever laying eyes on the Priest.

He found that possibility irritating.

He had come too far to die at the hands of his prey. He's willing to accept death if it serves his objective, but he considers dying before achieving it an unacceptable waste.

“It's for your ears only.”

Vesper scoffed, turning on his heel to walk away and leave the clown to his men.

​Just then, his gaze caught the glint of metal resting against Killian’s collarbone.

The cold smirk vanished from his face in that instant. That… that heirloom?

The air in the room changed.

Vesper's eyes narrowed, fixing on the heirloom with an intensity so disturbing, causing the rest to look.

Without a word of warning, a heavy fist connected violently with Killian's jaw.

BAM!

The impact threw him sideways, crashing his chair hard against the concrete floor.

Before the metallic taste of blood could even settle on Killian's tongue, Vesper was already kneeling over him. His gloved hand shot out, grabbing the heirloom to get a close look at it.

“Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch!” Killian barked breathlessly, playing the part of the cornered, furious outsider.

He knew Vesper’s circle would recognize the piece, though what Vesper would actually do with that realization was entirely a roll of the dice. He had gambled his life on the reaction.

Vesper didn't blink. His pupils were blown wide, a mixture of profound shock and reluctant terror washing over his hard features.

He slowly let go of the necklace, rising to his feet with absolute urgency.

“Unchain him,” He ordered, “And bring him upstairs. Now.”

The group of men exchanged bewildered, tense glances. They could all tell something unsettling had just shifted.

“Boss? Are you sure? We can't just…”

A single, murderous look from Vesper cut the protest short. The men scrambled forward instantly.

Heavy iron links fell away with a sharp clatter against the concrete floor.

As Killian rubbed his bruised wrists, dragging himself to his feet and crossing the threshold into the main sanctuary, he smirked.

With Level 1 done, Level 2 had officially begun.