Chapter 5: Blood and Moles
1191 Words
Blood Clan HQ: The War Room
"That b***h," Marshal hissed, his fist slamming into the mahogany table with a force that made the ammunition casings rattle.
The report from his informant had been a jagged pill to swallow. His wife and mother-in-law—dead. He had built the Ohio mansion to be a fortress, an untouchable sanctuary for the family he kept separate from the grime of the Blood Clan's daily dealings. He had trusted his logic. He had trusted the underground route.
"She outsmarted me," he growled, the words sounding like gravel. "She saw the move before I even made it."
The men in the room remained frozen. In the Blood Clan, silence was survival. Offering the wrong advice to Marshal when he was in a "red zone" was a quick way to earn a permanent spot in the morgue.
Marshal reached for his pipe, but his phone buzzed. "Hades. Report."
"The police have the perimeter locked down, Boss," Hades’ gravelly voice came through. "Maids are being interrogated as we speak. They’ve already moved the bodies to the morgue."
Marshal rubbed his temple, feeling the onset of a blinding migraine. "Get out of there. Don't let them see you. If the feds pick up a scent, we’re all burning."
He pocketed the phone and looked up, his eyes scanning the faces of his lieutenants. "The Wolves are back. That little girl is playing a game she thinks she’s winning. She’s two steps ahead, but she’s forgotten one thing: I’m the one who taught her father how to bleed."
He pulled a revolver from his waistband, tracing the cylinder with his thumb. "But there’s a question that needs an answer. How did the Wolves find a safe house that wasn't even on the books? There’s a rat in this room."
He let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "No one wants to speak? No one wants to confess?" He swept a pile of documents off the table in a sudden burst of rage. "Talk to me!"
"Dad..."
A new voice cut through the tension. Donald stepped into the room, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with the shadows of a sleepless night. He didn't look at his father. Instead, he stared directly at a woman near the back of the room whose fingers were twitching uncontrollably.
Without a word, Donald drew his piece. Bang.
The woman collapsed, a single red eye opening in the center of her forehead. The room gasped, but Donald didn't flinch.
"What the hell was that, Donald?" Marshal roared.
"That b***h sold us out," Donald said, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and adrenaline.
"And you know this how? Intuition?"
"She was shaking, Dad. But more importantly... she’s the only one I told about Mum’s location."
Marshal’s expression shifted from rage to cold, calculated fury. "And why did you tell her?"
Donald let out a jagged laugh, ruffling his hair. "She drugged me. She played the doting girl, brought me coffee, got me in bed... and then she started digging. She didn't know I had a hidden cam in my headboard. I watched the footage this morning. She interrogated me while I was half-conscious."
"God damn it," Marshal breathed. "You should have let us break her first. We could have found out who she was working for."
"We already know who," Donald snapped, turning for the door. "Lady Mafia. I’m done being a detective. From now on, any rat I find gets a bullet, not a trial."
As Donald stormed out, Marshal received a final text from his informant. His eyes narrowed as he read the words: Your son was taken along with them. Evans.
Marshal scoffed, shaking his head. "That idiot."
Donald’s POV
I slammed my bedroom door so hard the frame groaned. I didn't even turn on the light; I just grabbed a pack of cigarettes and sparked one, filling my lungs with the only thing that felt like it could settle the storm in my chest.
Mum. Grannie. Gone.
It was my fault for being weak. For letting a pretty face and a drugged cup of coffee c***k my skull open. But more than that, it was her. Kyla. The "Lady Mafia."
She’s been a thorn in my side since we were kids. She probably doesn't even remember the first time she humiliated me, but I see it every time I close my eyes.
Flashback: The Music Hall
"Let her go."
I looked up from the girl I had pinned to the floor of the abandoned music hall. My friends were laughing, cheering me on, but the voice behind us stopped the fun cold.
She was dressed in all black—leather jacket, sneakers, and a baseball cap pulled low. She looked like a shadow that had decided to take human form.
I stood up, smirking. "And who the hell are we supposed to be? The school’s guardian angel?"
The girl I was harassing scrambled away, crying. The intruder just signaled for her to run. I felt a surge of annoyance. This hall was our playground. We’d spent months using this soundproofed ruin to do whatever we wanted to the girls who were foolish enough to follow us.
"You want to take her place?" I licked my lips. "I can work with that."
I signaled my two friends. They moved in, cracking their knuckles. They expected an easy grab—a second meal.
"You’re making a mistake, Donald," she said. She took off her jacket and cap, revealing a high ponytail and a face that was dangerously beautiful. "Let the girl go, and maybe you walk out of here."
My friends lunged. She didn't even blink. A snap-kick to the first guy's groin, a palm strike to the second guy’s nose. They were on the floor in seconds, groaning in a way that sounded expensive.
I charged her. I was the son of a Mafia lord; I’d been in street fights since I could walk. I swung a heavy right hook, but she moved like smoke, sliding under my arm and driving a knee into my gut.
"Argh!" The air left my lungs in a rush.
I swung again, managing to catch her jaw. She didn't fall. She just turned her head back to me, her eyes filled with a cold, predatory light that made my blood run cold.
She surged forward—a blur of violence. Multiple strikes to my face, a sweep of my legs, and suddenly I was on the floor with her knee pinned to my throat. She squeezed until black spots danced in my vision.
"The next time you touch a woman in this school," she whispered, her voice like ice, "you won’t live to regret it."
She gave me one last stinging slap that made me see stars, then vanished into the shadows. I was expelled a week later—she’d filmed the whole thing and sent it to the dean.
Present Day
I crushed the cigarette butt into the tray. I wasn't that weak kid anymore. I’d spent years training, bleeding, and learning how to kill.
My phone rang. It was sss—my current plaything.
- Writer
