They Took My Daughter’s Heart

Chapter 007

Southshire State had always been regarded as a place where order reigned supreme, at least on the surface. Its city, Kingsley City, gleamed with glass towers, manicured avenues, and a reputation carefully polished by wealth and influence. To outsiders, it was a city of opportunity and restraint, where disputes were settled in boardrooms rather than alleys. Yet those who truly understood the city knew that beneath its polished exterior lay a darker current—an unspoken hierarchy built on blood, fear, and unrecorded violence.

When Blake Nolan received the message, that carefully maintained façade shattered in an instant.

The heavy executive desk in his private office did not merely shift. With a raw, animal snarl tearing out of his throat, Blake kicked it over entirely. The desk slammed into the marble floor, splintering at one corner as documents, crystal ornaments, and a custom-made desk lamp scattered violently across the room. The crash echoed through the upper floors of the Nolan estate’s headquarters, sending a chill down the spines of every aide and guard standing outside the door.

“How dare they?” Blake roared, his voice thick with disbelief and rage. “Who the hell is it—who dares to touch my son?!”

His fingers clenched around his phone so tightly that the metal frame groaned. Veins bulged across his forehead as his bloodshot eyes locked onto the images displayed on the screen. For a brief, horrifying moment, his mind refused to process what he was seeing, as if denial itself were a final, desperate defense.

The photographs were merciless.

Matthew Nolan was hanging from the wrought-iron gate of a hillside villa, his body suspended like a warning rather than a man. His clothes were shredded, soaked through with blood that darkened the fabric into near-black patches. Two hollow steel tubes had been driven clean through his legs, fixing him in place with grotesque precision. Blood flowed steadily down the metal, dripping into a large iron basin placed beneath him.

The basin was full.

So full that the blood had begun to spill over the rim, pooling on the stone ground and staining it a deep, nauseating red.

Blake’s vision blurred. His breathing grew ragged as something inside his chest cracked open.

“Who is it?” he screamed, his voice hoarse and feral. “Who dares to do this to my son?! I swear I will make them pay in blood—blood for blood!”

The fury consumed him entirely. Blake had gained his son late in life, after years spent climbing over corpses and rivals alike. Matthew Nolan was not merely an heir; he was a symbol of continuity, the proof that everything Blake had built would endure. And now, that symbol was being publicly desecrated.

“Call everyone,” Blake barked, spinning toward the trembling elderly man standing nearby. “Every single one of them. We’re going to the hillside villa—now. We’re bringing my son back… and my grandson. Anyone who laid a hand on them will be skinned alive and torn apart piece by piece!”

“Yes… yes, sir,” the old butler replied, his voice shaking.

He had served the Nolan household for decades and had witnessed Blake Nolan’s rise from a shadowy nobody into one of Kingsley City’s undisputed kings. Never—not even during the bloodiest years—had he seen the family head this enraged. The city’s elite liked to pretend the Nolan fortune had been built on shrewd investments and clean contracts, but the truth was far uglier. Blake Nolan’s hands were stained with more blood than could ever be counted, and many of those stains had never been washed away.

Even now, despite the Nolan family’s position among the city’s first-tier dynasties, Blake had never truly abandoned his darker roots. He had merely buried them deeper, cultivating private forces that answered only to him.

That was why, in Kingsley City, almost no one dared to provoke the Nolan name.

Yet someone had done more than provoke it.

They had crippled Matthew Nolan, destroying his legs beyond hope of recovery. Worse still, Matthew’s son—Blake’s only grandson, the sole continuation of the bloodline—was unaccounted for.

The old butler’s thoughts were interrupted by the sharp chime of a phone ringing.

Blake’s phone.

Under normal circumstances, Blake would have smashed it without hesitation. But when his eyes fell on the caller ID, his expression tightened. The name on the screen belonged to Sebastian Hawthorne, head of the Hawthorne family of Kingsley, and Blake’s in-law.

The call connected, and before Blake could speak, Sebastian’s voice exploded through the speaker, raw with grief and rage.

“Blake Nolan! What the hell is going on?! Who killed my grandson?!”

The words hit Blake like ice water poured down his spine.

“Your grandson?” Blake croaked. “Theo… Theo—something happened to Theo?”

There was a pause on the line, heavy and suffocating.

“Ten minutes ago,” Sebastian said, each word forced out with visible restraint, “someone dumped Theo’s body at the gates of the Hawthorne estate.”

Blake felt the room tilt.

Sebastian drew a shaky breath before continuing, his tone dropping to a dangerous calm. “Theo was supposed to be with Matthew. So tell me, Blake—how did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Blake replied through clenched teeth. “I only just received the message myself. Matthew has been tortured—his legs are destroyed. There was so much blood it filled an iron basin. I’ve already mobilized everything we have. We’re heading to the hillside villa now.”

“Damn it!” Sebastian snarled. “I’m coming with you. Whoever did this murdered my grandson and tortured my son-in-law. I want their head with my own hands.”

“Good,” Blake said coldly. “We meet at the hillside villa. No one involved leaves alive.”

The call ended.

That night, the Nolan family of Kingsley and the Hawthorne family of Kingsley, two first-tier powers that dominated the city’s elite circles, moved as one. Thousands of men were assembled in silence, dressed in black, armed with cold steel and heavier things still. The convoy rolled out, a dark tide surging toward the hills.

At the same time, a different kind of order rippled outward.

Disciples loyal to Dylan Brooks received a single, unequivocal command. Those already in Kingsley City were to converge immediately on the hillside villa. Those still outside the region were instructed to withdraw beyond the national border and await further orders.

This was not hesitation. It was restraint.

Against two local families, Dylan did not need an army. On his own, he could erase them completely. Still, he understood loyalty when he saw it. Those who had already come were permitted to stand with him.

As the Nolan and Hawthorne forces surged uphill, Dylan’s people were already moving.

Even a fraction of his disciples was enough to darken the horizon.

Thomas Reed arrived at the head of an overwhelming armored column. Troop carriers, armored vehicles, and heavy equipment advanced like ancient beasts of steel, shaking the ground with every movement. From another direction, tens of thousands from the Nether Court flooded into the city, their presence silent but lethal, carrying weapons designed for war rather than intimidation.

Healers, poison specialists, and countless followers from hidden sects moved swiftly through the streets. Even foreign mercenary units appeared, converging without explanation.

The city’s defense authority responded instantly, sealing Kingsley City entirely. Roads were blocked, commerce halted, and citizens ordered indoors. The city held its breath as tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of forces closed in.

Fear spread like electricity.

By the time the Nolan and Hawthorne men reached the hillside villa, the mountain itself seemed to tremble.

Blake Nolan saw his son the moment they arrived.

“Dad… save me,” Matthew Nolan whispered weakly, his face drained of all color. His legs hung lifeless, bloodless, ruined beyond recognition.

Blake’s eyes burned.

Seated nearby, utterly calm, was Dylan Brooks, reclining in a carved hardwood chair as if watching a play unfold. Behind him stood Thomas Reed, figures from the Nether Court, and countless disciples who had answered the call.

“Kill them,” Blake screamed. “All of them!”

Sebastian Hawthorne’s voice joined his. “Bring me his head!”

Weapons were raised.

Dylan smiled faintly and gestured toward the mountain below.

“Before you do,” he said softly, “perhaps you should look around.”

The roar of engines answered for him.

From every direction, forces emerged—uniformed troops, assassins, mercenaries—encircling the mountain completely.

The night belonged to Dylan Brooks.