[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 138: Kill Switch/Old debts

CASSIAN

The air in the back room of Il Traguardo felt as though it had been vacuumed out, leaving a pressurized, ringing silence. The cold, unyielding ring of a 9mm barrel was pressed firmly into the base of my skull, right where the spine met the brain, the "kill switch."

Across the lace-covered table, Lorenzo Marchetti sat back, his distinguished features bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight. He looked like a grandfather presiding over a Sunday feast, except for the four armed men flanking him and the executioner standing behind my chair.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. I sat there, paralyzed not by fear, but by a chilling, mechanical calculation. I felt the weight of the gun, the heat of the guard’s breath on the back of my neck, and the predatory stillness of the room.

"The debt belongs to Emilio Vincenti, doesn’t it?" I asked. My voice was awfully calm, flatter than the wine in my glass.

Marchetti’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease passing through his expression. He expected a plea. He expected the frantic babbling of a billionaire who had suddenly realized his money couldn’t buy his life. He didn’t expect me to treat a gun to my head like a boring board meeting.

"You killed a man who had friends, Cassian," Marchetti replied, leaning forward. "Powerful friends. And now his son wants revenge. He wants the Wolfe legacy burned to the ground, starting with the head of the house."

"Does the son know?" I asked, reaching slowly, deliberately, for my glass of scotch.

The guard behind me tensed, the barrel grinding into my bone, but he didn’t stop me. I took a casual sip, letting the peat and smoke coat my tongue.

"Does Emilio know what he did before his father had to pay for his crimes? Or is he just playing the grieving orphan to hide the fact that he’s a coward?"

Marchetti bristled, his face reddening. "It doesn’t matter what the son did. What matters is the blood on your hands. And unfortunately for you, I’m the one carrying out his execution. I’ve lived by a code of honor my entire life, Wolfe. Loyalty to one’s allies is paramount. This is a matter of duty."

He puffed his chest out, his old-school mobster pride swelling. He saw himself as a righteous hand of fate, a man of "honor" in a world of suits. It was pathetic. It was the same prideful bullshit that had filled the graveyards of the city for a century.

I let out a low, genuine chuckle. It started in my chest and rumbled out, a sound of pure, dark amusement.

Marchetti’s hand slammed onto the table, rattling the silverware. "You find this funny?"

"Emilio never ceases to surprise me," I said, tilting my head slightly, ignoring the weapon pressed into my skull.

"After all these years, I actually thought the boy would have the spine to show up himself. I thought he’d want to look me in the eye when the light went out. But I also guess he’s not completely as foolish as I thought. Especially after that half-assed incident. He realized that if he wants a Wolfe dead, he can’t do it himself. He has to hire a dinosaur to do the heavy lifting."

"The trailer incident was handled poorly," Marchetti spat, his ego wounded on behalf of his employer. "The man hired did a wax job. He was executed for his failure. Tonight, there will be no failure."

While he spoke, I was reading the room. My mind, sharpened by years in a cell where a second’s hesitation meant a shiv in the kidney, was moving at ten times the speed of the conversation.

Five men total. Marchetti, unarmed but likely has a piece in his waistband. One behind me with the 9mm. Two by the door. One near the window.

Layout: The table is heavy oak. It can provide cover. The floor is polished marble, slippery if blood hits it. The exits are blocked, but the window is a straight drop to a side alley.

Weapons: The guard behind me is right-handed. His stance is wide, overconfident. The second by the door has a holster flap open, arrogant. The third has a tactical knife on his belt, dangerous. The fourth is the only one with his hand already on his grip.

I knew I was cornered. I knew the poison in the soup was likely beginning to thin my reaction times, though I’d only taken a sip. But the prison instincts were already and screaming. I wasn’t a CEO anymore. I was a wild dog, and I was about to show them why I’d survived the pit in one of the most dangerous prisons in the continent.

Marchetti leaned forward, studying my face with a look of mounting suspicion. "You’re extremely relaxed for a dead man, Cassian. Most people beg at this point. They cry. They piss themselves and offer me half their bank accounts. Why aren’t you begging?"

I smirked, a jagged, ugly expression. "Should I be scared of a man who sends lackeys to do his work? Or should I be scared of Emilio, a boy who can’t even pull off a simple hit without holding someone’s hand? At least his father had the balls to face me himself before I put him down. You’re all just shadows of better men."

"Shut the fuck up," the guard behind me hissed. He was riled, his professional mask slipping into agitation. He shoved the barrel of the gun hard against my skull, forcing my head forward roughly.

That was the mistake. The moment his weight shifted forward to apply pressure, I moved.

In an explosion of violence, I ceased to be a dinner guest.

My right hand shot up with lightning speed, bypassing the guard’s field of vision before his brain could register the motion. I grabbed his wrist, my thumb digging into the pressure point above the bone, and twisted violently. It was a technique I’d perfected in the showers of Blackwood, quick, brutal, and final.

An audible CRACK echoed through the room as his radius snapped. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers, and I caught it mid-air before it could hit the carpet.

Without letting go of his shattered wrist, I yanked the guard forward over my shoulder. He flew over me, crashing into the dinner table with a spray of sea bass and crystal. Before he could even scream, I stood and brought my heel down with the full force of my weight onto his throat.

A sickening crunch followed. The guard’s windpipe collapsed, and he slumped to the floor, gurgling on his own blood.

Only about three seconds has passed.

The room erupted. Marchetti scrambled backward, his chair toppling over. The other guards shouted, reaching for their holsters.

I didn’t wait. I moved toward the second guard, the one by the door. He was fast, but I was already in his space before he could level his weapon. I drove my palm into his chin, snapping his head back, then followed with a devastating elbow to the solar plexus.

As he doubled over, gasping for air, I grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the sharp edge of the oak table.

His skull cracked like an egg. He collapsed in a heap.

Time: 4 seconds. Running total: 7 seconds.

The third guard was the smart one. He didn’t go for his gun; he drew the tactical knife. He lunged at me with a jagged, horizontal slash. I sidestepped, a minimal, efficient movement, and caught his forearm. Using his own momentum, I pivoted and redirected his arm.

The guard’s own blade plunged deep into the soft tissue of his throat. Blood sprayed across my white dress shirt as he gurgled, his eyes wide with shock. I shoved him away, and he fell, twitching, onto the marble.

Time: 5 seconds. Running total: 12 seconds.

The fourth guard had kept his distance. He had his gun aimed, his finger squeezing the trigger.

"Wolfe!" he roared.

I dove. I threw my body behind the heavy, overturned oak table just as a gunshot shattered the silence. The bullet thudded into the wood, sending splinters flying. I didn’t hesitate. I reached down, grabbed the tactical knife from the throat of the third guard and calculated the angle.

I vaulted over the edge of the table. In mid-air, I threw the knife. The blade embedded itself deep into the fourth guard’s shoulder. He screamed, his aim faltering as his gun clattered to the floor. I landed on my feet, grabbed the fallen 9mm, and fired twice.

One to the chest. One to the head.

The guard was dead before his body hit the ground.

Time: 8 seconds. Running total: 20 seconds.