Chapter 29: Lines in the Sand

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting New York in hues of crimson and violet. Alexander Reid stood by his window, his gaze fixed on the streets below. The city buzzed with life, but he saw it differently now. It was a battlefield, and every passerby was a potential enemy or a pawn in Fisk's expanding game. And now, Anton Vasiliev had raised the stakes.

The pressure weighed heavily on Alexander. He had endured assassins, snipers, and brutal hand-to-hand fights, but this was different. This was personal. The Butcher had shifted the rules. His family, though distant in his new life, had become leverage. A weakness to exploit. Alexander could not allow that.

He made his decision swiftly. His family would not be pawns. He would not let the Butcher reach them.

That evening, he made the call. It was brief, calculated. He masked his tension with warmth, pretending to be the dutiful son urging his parents to take a much-needed vacation. A resort in Florida, somewhere quiet, far from the reach of New York's shadows. They questioned his urgency, but he disguised it as spontaneity—a gesture to show his gratitude for all they had done for him.

"I'll cover everything. Just relax. You deserve it," he said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him.

They accepted. Relief washed over him, but it was temporary. They were safe—for now. But he knew this was just the beginning. Vasiliev would not stop until he had what he wanted.

Later that night, Marcus met him in person, a rare occurrence. They convened in a rundown gym Marcus used as a front for his information network. The walls reeked of sweat and old leather, the air thick with the echoes of past fights. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the worn mats and punching bags that had seen better days. It was fitting—a sanctuary built on violence.

"He's close," Marcus said, his eyes heavy with concern. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his tone low and serious. "Vasiliev. He's not hiding anymore. I heard he's been seen near Hell's Kitchen. He's watching. Waiting for you to make a mistake."

Alexander tightened his fists, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. "Then I won't give him one."

Marcus studied him for a moment, his expression hardening. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder—a rare show of vulnerability from a man who had survived his own share of battles.

"I know you can handle yourself, but this guy—he breaks people, not just bodies. He gets inside their heads. Be sure you know where your line is. Once you cross it, there's no going back."

Alexander met his gaze, his eyes burning with resolve. "I drew my line the day I chose this fight. There is no turning back. Not now."

The two men stood in silence for a moment, bound by mutual respect and the understanding that war had already consumed them. Marcus gave a subtle nod before stepping back, fading into the shadows of his domain.

That night, Alexander returned to his penthouse. He checked his weapons, his traps, his surveillance feeds. Every system was ready. He ran through his drills, practicing his movements until they were muscle memory. His body was prepared, but his mind was sharpening too. Vasiliev would not catch him off guard.

He stepped onto his balcony, feeling the cool night air against his face. The city below glittered like a sea of stars, but all he saw were threats. Every alley could hide a gunman. Every rooftop could be a sniper's perch. Every face could be an informant.

Somewhere in the shadows, Vasiliev was watching. Waiting.

Alexander was ready.

The next move would be his.

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