Chapter 6: Blood and Champagne
Lancaster was trembling.Not from earthquakes.But from movements no one saw—like wires tightening around its throat.
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Underground – 1:14 AM
The warehouse reeked of sweat and sawdust, a dozen men training under flickering bulbs. Punching bags swung, boots scraped the concrete, and the sound of grunts filled the air. It wasn't a gym—it was a war camp now.
Alex Virell stood in the back office, staring down at a blueprint of the city's Sector 8 docks—a known hub for contraband and cash flow. A bold move, even for him.
He needed the docks to cut off the Iron Syndicate's supply chain. But he also knew they'd retaliate.
He was ready for that.
What he wasn't ready for...was betrayal.
The door creaked open. Derek, one of the lieutenants Alex personally trained, stepped in—sweating, pale.
"They're here," he whispered. "It's not a warning. They're armed."
Alex didn't move. "How many?"
Derek hesitated. "At least twenty."
Alex's jaw tightened. "Who gave them our location?"
Derek swallowed hard. "I—I don't know."
Alex looked him in the eye. "You just did."
Then he pulled the knife from behind his belt and stabbed it into Derek's thigh. The man screamed, collapsing.
"You led them here," Alex said calmly. "That makes you the first message."
He left the knife in and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.
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By the time he reached the front, gunfire had begun.
The Syndicate came fast, ruthless, and overconfident.
Alex's men—barely a week under his command—were overwhelmed.
Alex didn't give orders. He gave examples.
He moved like a blade through smoke—silent, sharp, deadly. Three Syndicate men went down before anyone realized he was even in the room. A fourth raised a rifle—Alex kicked him into a steel beam and snapped his elbow in one smooth motion.
Blood sprayed. A pipe bomb exploded near the entrance. The warehouse caught fire on one side, painting the scene in flames.
Alex grabbed a pistol from a dead attacker and turned the tide with bullets and brutality.
Within ten minutes, the Syndicate was gone.
Either dead or crawling away like broken dogs.
The fire hissed against the rain pouring through the broken roof.
Alex stood in the center of the chaos, shirt torn, smoke curling off his shoulder.
He looked down at the blood pooling at his feet.
Then at the city map still intact on the table behind him.
"This is war now," he muttered.
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High Society – 9:00 PM (Earlier That Evening)
Lia Virell entered the Ridgecrest Lounge, an ultra-exclusive private club for Lancaster's elite, dressed in a velvet wine-red dress that clung like a whisper and stabbed like a sword.
She wasn't here to play tonight.
She was here to burn someone.
Clara Harrow—daughter of Victor Harrow, and the one who had confronted Lia back at the Thorne gala—was already at the lounge. She sat beside her father at the reserved table near the balcony, sipping aged whiskey with ice shaped like diamonds.
As Lia walked in, conversations stopped.
She wasn't just the center of attention.
She was the center of gravity.
Victor stood to greet her, a mix of charm and fear in his eyes.
"Miss Vale. A surprise."
"Not really," Lia said smoothly, brushing a kiss to each of his cheeks. "I always come when I'm about to ruin someone's night."
Victor laughed, unsure.
Clara didn't.
"What game are you playing?" Clara asked, cutting to the chase.
Lia sat across from her, elegantly.
"I play no games," she said. "Only wars. And you poked first."
She slid a folder across the table.
Clara opened it.
Her face drained of color.
Inside were high-resolution photos, account ledgers, private messages. All connected to an illegal land acquisition scandal her family had buried months ago. Evidence only a hacker—or a ghost—could've accessed.
Lia leaned in.
"You're going to transfer your seat on the Evermore Board to your cousin Michael," she said. "Tonight. You'll say it's a personal decision."
Clara glared. "And if I don't?"
Lia's smile vanished. Her voice went flat.
"Then tomorrow, the media gets this folder. And your father gets arrested. And you? You disappear from the Circle."
Silence.
Clara said nothing—but her shaking hands clutched the folder.
Lia stood and walked away.
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As she stepped onto the balcony, the city glimmered beneath her—oblivious.
She took a glass of champagne from a passing server.
And behind her, Clara Harrow quietly sobbed.
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At Midnight
Far apart but thinking the same words, two siblings—one bathed in blood, the other in champagne—whispered the same promise:
"Control comes next."