I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 061

The shrill ring of the telephone cut through the silence like a death knell, shattering the fragile peace of Hector Quinn’s makeshift infirmary. The air was thick with antiseptic and the metallic tang of fear. Hector, the godfather of New Bergen, lay propped on a mountain of pillows, his breathing shallow and rattling.

Hector was a legend, his body a roadmap of scars from decades of violence. But time was the one enemy he couldn't outmaneuver. While he sat on the throne, his body crumbled. Recently, the meteoric rise of the Shadow Eagle Clan had accelerated his decline. Ever since Kane Adler annihilated The Five Kings, Hector had been haunted by nightmares of The Brotherhood’s collapse.

He had yearned to strike, but his political patron, Brooks Hamilton, had turned cold, returning bribes and cutting ties. The stress snapped Hector’s resilience. Now, his master bedroom was a high-tech ICU, where his loyal lieutenants—Andrew Wilson, Christopher Davis, and Benjamin Anderson—kept a sleepless vigil.

Andrew Wilson answered the phone. As he listened, his face drained of color. He closed the device with a trembling hand, exchanged a grim look with the others, and moved to leave, desperate to spare his boss the news.

But the old man wasn't gone yet.

Hector’s eyes snapped open. They were cloudy, rimmed with red, but the sharp, predatory glint was still there. " Andrew," he croaked, his voice weak but commanding. "What is it?"

Andrew froze. He looked at the other two, pleading silently for help, but they looked away, staring at the floor.

" Andrew," Christopher Davis, a corpulent man whose suit was straining at the seams, whispered anxiously. "Just tell him. You can't hide it."

Hector’s heart rate monitor sped up, the beeping becoming frantic. "What?" he wheezed, a cold fury rising in his chest. "I’m not dead yet, and you’re already censoring my intelligence?"

Andrew sighed, a sound of pure defeat. "Boss..."

"Speak!" Hector barked, the exertion sending him into a violent coughing fit.

A young nurse rushed forward to adjust his oxygen mask, but Hector swatted her away with surprising strength. "Get out! All of you, get out! Unless I call for you, no one enters this room!"

Christopher waved the nurse and the bodyguards out of the room, closing the heavy double doors behind them. "Alright, Andrew. It’s just us. Tell him."

Andrew stepped into the light of the bedside lamp, bowing his head under Hector’s intense scrutiny. "Boss... the Central Hub is under attack. The Shadow Eagle Clan has launched a full-scale assault. They have deployed nearly two thousand men. Kane Adler and Rex Dalton are leading the charge personally."

The room went deathly silent. The only sound was the hiss of the oxygen tank.

"Two thousand..." Benjamin Anderson muttered, horrified. "How is it right now?"

Andrew shook his head. "I don't have specifics. But David, the caretaker, was on the line. I could hear the killing in the background. It sounded like hell on earth. He said the enemy has breached the outer defenses and is closing in on the inner sanctum. The Young Master... Ray Quinn... has personally led a counter-charge to hold the line."

Hector closed his eyes, a single tear leaking out and traversing the deep canyons of his wrinkles. " Kane Adler," he whispered, the name tasting like ash. "He finally made his move. What impeccable timing. He waited until I was down. Smart. Ruthless."

"Two thousand against eight hundred," Benjamin said, pacing the room. "Even with The Brotherhood’s elite fighters, the numbers are against us. Ray... the Young Master won't be able to hold out for long. Boss, we need to act."

Christopher gritted his teeth, his fat face shaking with emotion. "Boss, Ray cannot die there. Let me go. I’ll gather the reserves and cut a path to get him out."

Hector shook his head slowly. He forced himself to sit up, fighting the vertigo that threatened to pull him back under. " Andrew, are you sure Kane and his top dogs are all there? Have any other territories reported attacks?"

Andrew hesitated. " David was certain about seeing Kane and Rex. As for the other locations... the night is quiet. No distress calls. Our intelligence network is silent."

In reality, the old caretaker hadn't seen anything clearly in the chaos, but Andrew knew one thing: Ray Quinn was the future of the organization. He had to be saved. To ensure Hector authorized a rescue, Andrew had to present a scenario where a counter-attack was viable. He was, effectively, gambling with military intelligence.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep, shuddering breath, summoning the last reserves of his energy. "Good. Good. I’ve been wondering how to crush that arrogant brat. If he’s brought his entire force to my doorstep, he’s saved me the trouble of hunting him down. I won't show mercy."

He turned to Andrew, his voice hardening into steel. " Andrew, order Thomas Walker to take four hundred men from the reserves and rush to the Central Hub at top speed. Tell the managers of the nightspots to lock down. Do not engage unless attacked. Defense only."

He paused, a ruthless sneer curling his lip. "And get me Kevin Murphy of the Hatchet Boys on the line. No, you call him. Tell him I’m offering him two of our prime nightclubs in the city center, two bars, and two million U.S. dollars in cash. Tell him to rally the Hatchet Boys and drag in any other small gangs he can find. I want him to scrape together at least two thousand men. Tell him to hit the Shadow Eagle Clan from the rear. I want those bastards surrounded and strangled. Crush them! Kill them all!"

Andrew nodded vigorously. "I’ll handle it immediately, Boss. Don't worry. Please, lie back down. Your health is the most important thing to the family."

Christopher patted Andrew on the shoulder. "Go. Make the call. We’ve got things here."

Andrew stepped out into the hallway, the cool air hitting his sweating face. He pulled out his phone and dialed the private number of Kevin Murphy, the leader of the city’s second-largest g**g.

"Hello? Mr. Murphy? Heh, sorry to disturb you so late at night..."

The line connected, and the call went through. But the person holding the phone on the other end was not Kevin Murphy.

It was Dante Romero.

The scene inside Kevin Murphy’s luxurious villa was a tableau of absolute horror.

The sprawling living room, usually a place of opulent parties, had been transformed into a slaughterhouse. Eleven bodies were scattered across the expensive marble floor—bodyguards, servants, a nanny, and even Kevin’s wife. They lay in widening pools of dark crimson, their lives extinguished in a sudden, brutal violence that had left the room eerily quiet.

And then there was Kevin Murphy, the feared boss of the Hatchet Boys.

He was not sitting on his throne. He was pinned to the wall.

Eight short, military-grade tactical blades had been driven through his limbs and clothes, crucifixion-style, anchoring him to the drywall. He looked like something dredged up from a pool of blood. His body convulsed violently, spasms of agony racking his frame. His eyes were wide, filled with a primal terror that had shattered his sanity. He tried to scream, to beg, but a rag had been stuffed deep into his mouth, reducing his cries to pathetic, muffled whimpers.

Lounging on the leather sofa in front of this gruesome display sat Dante Romero, spinning a knife casually between his fingers. Next to him was Ryder (No. 5), looking bored as he rested a massive broadsword on his shoulder, and Sev (No. 7), who was meticulously cleaning dirt from under his fingernails with a small dagger.

Standing next to the pinned g**g leader were Cillian Moss and two members of The Execution Unit. They held surgical scalpels, their expressions clinically detached as they worked on Kevin, peeling back layers of skin with the precision of artists. They were slowly, methodically dissecting him while keeping him conscious.

When the phone in Dante Romero’s hand began to ring, displaying Andrew Wilson’s number, Dante grinned. It was a wolfish, terrifying smile. He snapped his fingers.

Snap.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

Cillian stepped back. Dante walked over to the wall, placing the cold flat of his blade against Kevin’s cheek. He leaned in, his voice a whisper of death.

"Answer this call. Talk just like you always do. If there is even a single tremble in your voice, if you hint at anything... tonight, I will make sure you live for another three days. I will show you what pain really is. And remember... we have your son. He’s in the other room. Think about him."

Kevin had been tortured for an hour. These men weren't human; they were demons. The Shadow Eagle Clan possessed a brutality that the Hatchet Boys couldn't even comprehend. Kevin’s spirit was broken. His only tether to the world was the hope that his son might still be alive.

As soon as Dante finished speaking, Kevin nodded his head frantically, desperation overriding the agony. He would sell his soul to the devil if it meant a quick death.

Cillian Moss chuckled dryly. "That's a good boy."

He reached into a medical kit and produced a syringe filled with a potent stimulant and pain suppressor. He jammed the needle into Kevin’s arm, depressing the plunger.

The chemicals hit Kevin’s bloodstream instantly. His pupils dilated, and the crushing weight of the pain receded, replaced by an artificial clarity and a surge of energy. He gasped, his chest heaving as he regained control of his vocal cords.

Dante waited a beat, then pressed the answer button and held the phone to Kevin’s ear.

"Oh... Andrew, my friend," Kevin managed to say, his voice surprisingly steady, anchored by the drugs and the g*n to his head. "It’s late..."

" Kevin, brother," Andrew’s voice crackled through the speaker, anxious and rushed. "I am truly sorry to bother you at this hour, but I have no choice. I won't beat around the bush. The Brotherhood’s Central Hub has been hit. The Shadow Eagle Clan is swarming us. The Young Master and eight hundred men are trapped inside. We’ve sent four hundred for support, but to teach these upstarts a lesson they won't forget, we need you."

"I see..." Kevin licked his cracked lips, glancing at the dead body of his wife on the floor. "How many men do they have?"

"Not many. About fifteen hundred," Andrew lied smoothly, shaving off five hundred men to make the request seem less suicidal. His priority was baiting Kevin into the trap.

"Fifteen hundred? Well, the Hatchet Boys have been stretched thin lately, you see..."

Before Kevin could finish his scripted hesitation, Andrew cut in, his voice desperate. "I know, I know things are tough. But listen, if you can rally two thousand men and help us survive this night, my Boss guarantees a payout. Two million US dollars. Cash. Plus two of the biggest nightclubs in the city center and two bars. The deed transfer happens tomorrow. What do you say? For the sake of our years of friendship? For the sake of Hector Quinn? I’m begging you, Kevin."

Kevin looked at Dante Romero. Dante smiled beatifically and gave a small, encouraging nod.

Kevin feigned a heavy sigh. "Alright. I’m not a man who forgets old friends. Since you put it that way, Andrew, I’ll do it. Two thousand men. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll lead them to your headquarters myself."

On the other end of the line, Andrew let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. " Kevin, you’re a lifesaver. I won't forget this. We’ll drink to this at the victory banquet tomorrow."

"Ha... yes. The banquet," Kevin said, his voice hollowing out. "Good."

The call ended.

In the second the connection was severed, the artificial strength left Kevin’s body. He slumped against the blades pinning him to the wall. Tears, mixed with blood and sweat, streamed down his face. They were tears of absolute despair—the realization that he had just betrayed his own city, lost his family, and sealed his own doom.

Dante pulled the knife back from Kevin’s neck. "Your son... we won't touch him. He’ll grow up without you, but he’ll live. You can go now."

Thwip.

The sound was wet and final.

Dante drove the blade into Kevin’s heart with a casual thrust. Kevin’s manic laughter cut off instantly, replaced by the gurgle of blood in his throat. His head fell forward, his chin resting on his chest. The boss of the Hatchet Boys had left the stage.

Dante reached out and gently closed the dead man’s eyes. He stood up, wiping the blade on Kevin’s expensive silk shirt. "Alright, show's over. Let’s move."

Sev hopped off the sofa, stretching his limbs like a cat. "Hey, Dante, Kane said we could go spectator mode after the mission, right?"

Dante grinned, holstering his weapon. "Yeah. The Boss said once we’re done here, we’re free to roam the battlefields. I’m thinking of heading over to Ethan Skyler’s sector. Hades Crew usually puts on a good show. You?"

"Heh," Sev cracked his knuckles. "I’m going to check out the Warlords turf."

Ryder hefted his massive blade onto his shoulder, the metal gleaming under the chandelier. "I’m going to find Rex. I want to see that mad beast tear the place apart."

Cillian Moss and the two Execution Unit members sighed in unison, looking at the c*****e in the room. "You guys go have fun," Cillian grumbled, snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves. "We have to stay here and clean up the scene. Honestly... I’m going to ask Kane for a raise. The Execution Unit does all the dirty work. We’re overworked and underappreciated."

Dante, Ryder, and Sev laughed, walking toward the door. "Don't work too hard, doc. We’re out of here. If we don't hurry, we’ll miss the climax."

They stepped out into the night, leaving the villa silent once more, save for the wet sounds of Cillian’s team beginning their grim work. The wheel of power in New Bergen was turning, greased by blood and money, and the night was far from over.