Marcus’s POV
I crouched down and yanked the rag from Doyle’s mouth, maintaining a calculated distance. His response was predictable a glob of saliva launched in my direction. I sidestepped it with practiced ease, my expression unchanged while disgust and cold fury bubbled beneath the surface.
Peter’s reaction was imdiate. He rushed forward and stomped his foot onto Doyle’s face, grinding down with barely restrained rage.
"Trust , I’ll kill you," Doyle growled, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned with hatred, voice distorted by pain but unmistakably threatening. "Unless you kill today, I’ll murder your entire family."
I stared down at him, murderous intent rising within while maintaining my glacial exterior. Peter increased the pressure of his foot, his voice dropping to match the temperature of my gaze.
"Family is off-limits, Doyle. You want to break the rules?"
Blood trickled from Doyle’s mouth as his eyes locked onto mine with sinister intensity. "To hell with the rules. My only rule is to kill you, make you suffer, send you to hell." He paused, his mouth twisting into a smile that made my skin crawl. "Marcus Murphy, you’ve been back to Arica quite frequently last year. Is there soone special waiting for you there?"
The words hit like a physical blow.
Alarm bells scread in my head, a chill racing from my feet to my skull.
For years, I’d ticulously protected my family, ensuring my business remained entirely separate from my ho life. Doyle’s implication froze my blood, but I suppressed every outward sign of reaction.
"What are you trying to say?" My voice erged controlled, betraying nothing of the panic clawing at my chest.
Peter’s face tensed with anxiety. "Sir, this animal can’t be allowed to live."
Doyle’s laughter echoed off the grimy walls, satisfaction dripping from every sound. "Marcus Murphy, are you afraid? Did I guess correctly?"
My heart hamred against my ribs, but my expression remained carved from stone. My family in Arica represented my greatest vulnerability, my absolute bottom line. I stood up slowly, voice deliberately level.
"Take him away." After a weighted pause, I added two decisive words.
"Deep water."
Relief washed over Peter’s face. He’d clearly worried I might show rcy—a foolish concern. For those who threatened my family, there would never be leniency.
Doyle thrashed against his restraints, curses spilling from his bloodied lips.
"Marcus Murphy, I’ll curse you. You destroyed my family, and I will repay you tenfold—"
Peter shoved the rag back into his mouth, silencing the tirade. I turned and walked toward the exit, outwardly composed while unease churned through my gut.
--
In the car, Peter’s eyes constantly flicked to the rearview mirror, fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel.
"Sir, doesn’t this seem too easy?" His voice carried the tension we both felt.
I stared out at the rain-slicked streets, considering his words. There was truth in them-the capture had been suspiciously straightforward. Before I could respond, headlights suddenly flooded our vehicle from multiple directions.
"Damn my big mouth! Sir, hold on tight," Peter cursed, yanking the wheel sharply left.
Our car lurched sickeningly as tires scread against wet pavent.
Through the window, I caught sight of one of our vehicles overturning, and then-impossibly-Doyle crawling from the wreckage.
"After him," I ordered, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Peter’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Sir, they’re targeting you specifically. We can’t pursue."
My response was simple: "Either chase him, or stop the car."
The aning hung between us, crystal clear—if he wouldn’t pursue, I would do it myself. My family’s safety superseded everything; Doyle had to be eliminated tonight.
Peter’s jaw clenched as he accelerated, tires hydroplaning montarily before catching traction. Ahead, a black SUV swerved to block our path, Doyle visible in the passenger seat.
"Ram them off the road," I commanded, the anger I’d been restraining finally bleeding into my voice.
Our vehicle slamd into theirs, tal screaming against tal as we forced them toward the guardrail.
---
The cliff edge materialized like a final judgnt, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below. Moonlight silvered the scene, casting my face in cold illumination as I approached Doyle, gun steady in my hand.
"Marcus Murphy, what will it take for you to let go?" Fear finally crept into his voice, the cockiness evaporating as he backed toward the precipice.
"Did I let you go? Did you spare Darren Ramirez?" The na brought a wave of painful mories washing over those desperate days of being hunted, Ryan’s leg injury, Darren’s death. The agony of my decision to stay away from Arica, from her* , all to protect my family.
"You destroyed my family!" Doyle scread, pulling a gun from his jacket, aiming it squarely at my chest.
"The deaths of your parents and sister have nothing to do with ." My voice was ice. I’d had conflicts with Doyle’s business interests, certainly, but never intended harm to his family mbers.
Doyle’s eyes blazed with hatred, his gun hand trembling. "Nothing to do with you? If you hadn’t caused my family’s bankruptcy, stolen our assets, would my parents have died? My sister loved you so much, yet you played with her feelings. She knelt before you, begging you to spare our family, and you heartlessly refused.
Are you even human?"
"Is that what you believe?" I stared at Doyle, my voice cutting through the night air like a blade. "Your sister’s feelings were entirely one-sided. I never led her on. In fact, I explicitly rejected her advances nurous tis."
The wind whipped around us, carrying the scent of salt and decay from the rocks below. Doyle’s face contorted with rage, his knuckles white around his gun.
"But she died because of you!" he scread, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "She died right in front of you! How do you sleep at night?
Doesn’t her ghost haunt you?"
A cold sensation spread through my chest, but not from fear. I’d long ago made peace with what happened. I wasn’t responsible for her choices, however tragic the outco.
"My conscience is clear," I replied, my tone as frigid as the night air. I could feel Peter’s tension beside , but my focus remained locked on Doyle.
Seeing Doyle’s unhinged fury, I recognized he’d passed the point of rational thought. His unpredictability made him dangerous, but also predictable in his rashness.
"Look around, Murphy. There are three of us and only two of you," Doyle suddenly switched tactics, a sly grin spreading across his face. "If you’re scared, we can call it a night and settle this another ti."
I nearly laughed at his pathetic attempt at intimidation. Did he genuinely believe numbers equated to advantage?
"I may only have one man with ," I replied evenly, "but either of us could kill you before you even pull that trigger. As for your n..." I paused, silently dismissing the street thugs he’d hastily recruited. Their hands trembled on their weapons like amateurs.
I slowly raised my left hand, pointing directly at my heart. "Aim here. Try not to let your hand shake."
My deliberate provocation had its intended effect. Peter’s anxiety beside was palpable, but his loyalty never wavered as his eyes remained fixed on our adversaries.
"Murphy, I fucking hate that arrogant look on your face—" Doyle snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger as he aid at my chest.
I didn’t flinch, my heartbeat steady. I trusted Peter, and I trusted my own judgnt. A gunshot cracked through the tension, but it wasn’t from Doyle’s weapon.
Doyle’s eyes widened in shock as he looked down at his chest. Disbelief washed over his features as he staggered backward, then disappeared over the cliff edge.
Peter rushed to the precipice, firing several more shots downward before turning back to . "Should have put a few more in him," he said, regret and unease mingling in his voice.
Doyle’s n stared in stunned silence.
"What the hell?" one stamred. "Our boss was still talking—you can’t just-"
Peter didn’t waste words on them, simply pointing his gun in their direction. "Either leave now, or join your boss down there." They scrambled to their vehicles, tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.
Despite their retreat, I couldn’t afford complacency. "Get people here. I want confirmation—a body or solid evidence he’s dead."
"Yes, Mr. Murphy," Peter nodded sharply.
The next morning, Peter entered my office with a grim expression that told everything before he spoke a word.
"We found blood on the rocks below, a substantial amount, but no body, sir."
My jaw tightened. Doyle was still alive.
"I failed you, sir. I should have made certain. I’ll find him imdiately," Peter said, self-reproach heavy in his voice.
I studied his exhausted features, the dark circles under his eyes evidence of his sleepless night. "This isn’t on you, Peter."
I sat back in my chair, twirling a fountain pen between my fingers as I considered our next move. "Doyle will need ti to recover from that wound.
While he’s in hiding, dismantle everything he’s built. Leave him with nothing to return to."
Peter’s expression sharpened with understanding. "I’ll start imdiately."
Over the following month, reports flowed in daily as Doyle’s empire crumbled piece by piece. His businesses, properties, and networks fell into my hands or dissolved entirely. His allies were bought, intimidated, or eliminated. His financial resources were frozen or appropriated.
Anna’s POV
I lay back on the examination table, trying to ignore the cold gel spreading across my abdon as the doctor maneuvered the ultrasound wand with practiced precision. The monitor beside us flickered with grainy black and white images-my twins, their tiny forms becoming clearer with each passing week.
"These babies will likely have prominent nose bridges-definitely beautiful features in the making," the doctor smiled, her fingers rapidly recording data on the keyboard.
My nose bridge isn’t particularly high, so they must take after their father.
Unbidden, my mind conjured the half-profile I’d glimpsed that morning-his nose bridge was indeed prominent.
Then, Marcus Murphy’s image suddenly intruded into my thoughts— his nose bridge is high too. The realization made tense, and I quickly redirected my attention to the doctor.
"Everything looks perfect," she continued, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Both babies are developing right on schedule. Would you like to know the gender?"
"Not yet," Mother answered from her chair beside , her eyes fixed on the monitor with undisguised awe. "We want it to be a surprise."
I nodded in agreent, though part of ached to know everything about these two lives growing inside . My hand instinctively moved to my slightly rounded belly, a protective gesture that had beco second nature.
After the examination, Mother and I walked through the hospital’s hushed corridor, our heels clicking against the polished floor. Security personnel maintained a respectful distance, ensuring the privacy that Skyview City’s elite demanded from their dical care.
"Annie, I think we should arrange for more comprehensive genetic testing," Mother suggested, adjusting her cashre scarf as we approached the exit. "Just to be safe."
"The doctor said everything looks normal," I replied, pushing through the revolving door into the crisp spring air.
Mother’s steps suddenly faltered. "Is... is that Marcus?" Her voice filled with surprise. "I’s been months since we’ve seen him. When did he return?"
My heart lurched painfully against my ribs. Standing near a sleek black town car was Marcus Murphy, his tall figure unmistakable even from a distance.
The early afternoon sunlight cast his profile in sharp relief.
"I don’t know. Catherine hasn’t ntioned anything," I replied calmly, though I felt a strange strength building inside . Perhaps it was the two little lives giving courage to face past heartbreak with composure.
The mory of flying across the ocean to find him now seed like just another harsh lesson reality had taught .
Seeing Mother’s nervous expression, I couldn’t help but smile. "Mom, act normal. Why do you look so guilty?"
Mother’s face betrayed her thoughts— she clearly still suspected the children were Marcus’s.
He approached us, his gaze lingering on my face before politely shifting away.
"Mrs. Shaw," he greeted my mother first, his tone gentle yet sowhat distant.
Then he turned to : "Annie."
Hearing this affectionate nickna sent a pang through my heart. How could he still use it so naturally? Once that na carried so much tenderness, but
now only awkwardness and distance remained.
"Oh, Marcus! You’re back again? When did you arrive?" Mother’s smile looked forced, her emphasis on "again" almost revealing her suspicions.
"Last night," Marcus answered briefly, his gaze inadvertently glancing at my slightly rounded abdon-just for a mont, but enough to make my heart skip.
I forced myself to maintain a smile. "I visited your grandfather William a few days ago. He was just talking about you. He’ll be delighted you’re back."
My tone was deliberately formal, using respectful terms as if reminding him of the unbridgeable gap between us.
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