His Dark Angel

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Nyx's POV

(Night Before the Coffee Shop Meeting)

The air in Bella’s back office was stale, thick with the scent of old paper, expensive fabrics, and the lingering tension of the day.

Antonio slept soundly on the chaise lounge under a soft cashmere throw, his disguise making him look like a stranger’s child. Bella had gone upstairs hours ago, leaving me alone with the flickering desk lamp, the scattered remnants of Antonio’s impromptu disguise kit, and my thoughts.

I’d asked John for intel on Bonavero and Roberto – tactical information for returning the kid. Simple. But John, bless his thorough, paranoid lawyer heart, rarely stopped at the surface. My burner phone buzzed silently on the desk beside a half-empty mug of cold coffee. A new encrypted message. Not the intel summary I expected, but a direct alert from John himself.

Nyx – Dug deeper into Tortellini’s financials, cross-referenced some shell corps he uses for imports. Found something… disturbing. Recurring coded wire transfers from an offshore account. The designation used is KRASNYY VOLK. Means Red Wolf. Sound familiar? This account has whispers around it – Bratva. Upper echelon. Be careful. This might be bigger than Tortellini.

Krasnyy Volk. Red Wolf.

The air left my lungs in a silent rush. My blood turned to ice water, then instantly to boiling lava. The name echoed in the deepest, most scarred chambers of my mind.

The Wolf. The architect of my parents’ murder.

The monster behind the trafficking ring, the source of the whispers that haunted my escape, the ultimate target of the vow I’d made in blood and tears years ago.

He wasn't just a ghost from the past. He was here. Connected to Tortellini. This k********g, Roberto’s pathetic power grab – it wasn't just local pissing contest. It was a ripple from him. Roberto was his pawn, his puppet.

HIM! Rage screamed in my head, a raw, incandescent fury that vibrated through my very bones. He’s CLOSE! KILL HIM! MAKE HIM BLEED!

Easy, Night cautioned, her voice like ice chips, though even she couldn’t entirely mask the cold, predatory thrill. Tortellini is nothing. A tool. But the tool can be used. A message must be sent.

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. The original plan – return the kid, maybe rough up Roberto as a warning – evaporated like smoke.

This changed everything.

The simmering, patient quest for vengeance ignited into an immediate, burning need. Tomorrow’s meeting wasn't just an exchange; it was an opportunity I hadn’t dared hope for so soon.

A chance to speak directly to the Wolf, using his own pathetic messenger.

Roberto won't die tomorrow. No, that would be too clean, too quick. He would suffer. And then he would crawl back to his master, carrying my words, my promise.

I leaned back, the old leather of Bella’s chair groaning. What message? It had to be right. Something that would cut through the layers of distance and power, something that would tell the Wolf the ghost he thought he’d buried was not only walking but hunting.

“Peredayte Krasnomu Volku privet ot prizraka, kotorogo on pokhoronil.” The Russian felt alien on my tongue, yet intimately familiar – the language of my nightmares, now repurposed for my revenge. Tell the Red Wolf hello from the ghost he buried. Yes.

That would do. Let him wonder. Let him remember. Let him fear.

A slow, cold smile spread across my face, reflecting in the dark screen of the burner phone. The game had just changed. And the Wolf had no idea the stakes had just become lethally personal.

Noon.

The coffee shop near the docks baked under the midday sun, its grimy windows reflecting the harsh light. From the shadowed alley across the street, I watched Bonavero’s crew arrive, disciplined and tense. Then Roberto’s thugs, sloppy and numerous.

Finally, Bonavero himself, flanked by Marcus and Lucas. He moved like controlled thunder, power held tightly in check. He was worried about his brother, walking into this meeting blind to the fact that Roberto no longer held the prize.

My own preparations were complete. Weapons checked, strapped, hidden. Rage simmered just beneath the surface, held back only by Night’s cool strategic focus and my own iron will. Today wasn't just about violence; it was about performance.

A declaration.

I waited until Bonavero was inside. Then I moved. No stealth this time. I walked towards the entrance, boots crunching on the pavement. The two guards outside tensed. Too slow. A kick sent one crashing through the window.

A thrown knife silenced the other before he could draw. Predictable.

Stepping through the shattered glass, over the bleeding guard, I entered the charged atmosphere.

Guns were up. Shouts died in throats. All eyes fixed on me.

Good.

Let them look. I ignored the weapons, the frozen figures, my gaze fixed on the back booth. Bonavero. Roberto.

I walked towards them, the only sound my footsteps on the broken glass. I saw Bonavero assess me, wave off his men.

Smart. He knew this wasn't part of the plan. Stopping before their table, I pushed back my hood, meeting Bonavero’s intense gray eyes.

A flicker of something – surprise, intrigue? – crossed his face before the mask slammed back down. Interesting.

“Hi there,” I kept my voice soft. “You must be Aiden. Nice to meet you.”

Then I turned the full force of my attention, my chilling smile, onto Roberto. He visibly shrank back.

“And you must be Roberto.” I leaned in. “You and I,” I purred, “are going to have so much fun.”

Leaning back, I let my gaze travel over Bonavero, Marcus, Lucas. “How rude of me,” I continued lightly.

“You must be wondering who I am, right? Well, I won't keep you guessing.”

“I’m Nyx. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” The name dropped into the silence like a stone.

The recognition hit them. Bonavero’s control was impressive, but I saw the minute tightening around his eyes. Marcus went rigid. Lucas looked momentarily stunned. Perfect.

Bonavero regained control, ordering weapons down. He questioned my business there.

I deflected, focusing on Roberto, letting Bonavero stew.

I watched him press Roberto about Antonio, watched the pathetic worm squirm and lie about making a call after the contract was signed.

The lie was almost insulting.

A cold chuckle escaped me.

All eyes snapped my way. I looked at Roberto, then shifted my gaze to Bonavero, letting him see the truth before I spoke.

“Hold up your end of the deal?” I asked Roberto, dripping sarcasm.

“Really? How exactly do you plan on doing that?” He stammered about the call.

Another chuckle. Time for the reveal.

“How is that going to happen,” I stated clearly, locking eyes with Bonavero, “when the kid is currently in my possession?”

Bonavero’s shock was palpable, followed by dawning hope, then sharp suspicion.

"What... what did you just say?"

“Simple enough,” I told him flatly. “Your brother, Antonio? He's with me. Safe.”

“How?” he demanded.

I jerked my chin towards the trembling Roberto.

“The idiots this dumbass sent decided to use my apartment building – my floor – as their little hideout. Bad move.” The chilling smile returned.

“Saw them roughing up a kid. Didn't like it. So, I intervened. Took them down. Took the kid.”

Just as relief warred with fury on Bonavero’s face, Roberto’s remaining men made their final mistake, raising their weapons again.

Fools.

My turn, Rage surged, and this time, I welcomed her fully.

The world exploded into motion. Throwing knives flew, finding their marks.

I vaulted the table, the long hunting knife singing in my hand as it met air. Rage reveled in the dance.

It wasn't just killing; it was deconstruction. Flesh yielded, bone grated.

Blood sprayed, hot and slick.

The scent, the sounds, the fleeting terror in their eyes – it fueled the inferno. Each movement was precise, brutal, efficient. A whirlwind of controlled destruction.

In moments, it was over.

Silence fell, heavy and thick with the smell of death. I stood amidst the c*****e, breathing slightly faster, the knife dripping crimson.

My gaze found Roberto, whimpering, trying to escape.

Pathetic. I walked towards him, savoring his terror.

Pinned his leg . His scream was satisfying.

Leaning down, I brought my lips close to his ear, the stench of his fear thick in the air.

“Peredayte Krasnomu Volku privet ot prizraka, kotorogo on pokhoronil,” I whispered the promised words, the Russian syllables a venomous caress. Tell the Red Wolf hello from the ghost he buried.

Message delivered.

For punctuation, and because Rage demanded it, I stood, raised the knife, and severed his arm at the shoulder. His shriek echoed as he convulsed.

Alive. Broken. Perfect.

I straightened, flicking blood from the blade, and turned to face Bonavero and his crew.

They hadn't moved, their expressions a mixture of shock, horror, and something else in Bonavero’s eyes… fascination?

Understanding?

Whatever it was, it resonated. I let a wide, genuine, blood-splattered smile spread across my face, meeting his intense gaze directly.

"I really hate people who hurt children," I said, the words ringing with absolute conviction.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. Instead, a slow, predatory smile curled his lips, mirroring my own, acknowledging the shared darkness.

The unexpected connection, the silent understanding in that moment of absolute brutality, struck me as darkly, absurdly funny.

A wild, unrestrained laugh bubbled up, tearing from my throat, echoing in the blood-soaked silence of the ruined coffee shop.