Vengeance in His Bed

"Tell me, Guron..." Bellero purred, his voice smooth as silk, carrying a toxic, mocking softness that cut right through the yelling mob. "Do you actually know the pain of losing a loved one? Have you ever stood in the freezing rain, looking down at the mangled, bloody corpse of someone who carried your own name? No... of course you haven’t."

Bellero took a slow step closer, his golden eyes narrowing into two predatory slits as he looked Guron up and down. "You stand there throwing your multi-billion-credit compensations at these grieving people, expecting them to smile and bow to your name. But money changes absolutely nothing. Do you truly expect these broken families to forgive your son just because you claim his slaughter was ’unintentional’? Do you really think a biological relapse excuses a double murder?"

Guron’s jaw locked tight, his eyes flashing as he stared down the old Mafia lord. He took a step forward, his shoulders blocking Bellero’s line of sight toward Dorrent and Jannah.

"Why are you bringing all this fuss, Bellero?" Guron rumbled. "What the hell have I ever done to you to warrant you staging this pathetic circus in the middle of the bogs? Why are you pulling old records out of the dirt?"

Bellero didn’t answer out loud immediately. Instead, a terrifying smile spread across his face, reaching his cold, golden eyes. He stepped closer to Guron, leaning his head in until his lips were mere inches from the Alpha’s ear.

"Of course you know why, Guron," Bellero whispered, his voice a razor-sharp, venomous purr that only Guron could hear over the roar of the crowd. He slowly shifted his gaze over Guron’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto Jannah’s fragile, trembling form pinned against Dorrent’s chest. "You know damn well that you have something in your house that belongs to me. You are holding the key to my bloodline’s future."

Bellero pulled back slightly, his smile vanishing into a look of malice as he stared dead into Guron’s eyes. "And let me make this unequivocally clear to your arrogant mind, Guron... I will stop at absolutely nothing until I have that girl. I will ruin your markets, and I will destroy your son before I let her stay in his bed."

Guron’s expression went utterly still, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t show a single inch of panic, his presence stabilizing into a wall of unbending steel.

"If you have something to discuss with me, Bellero," Guron delivered flatly, his voice carrying a freezing, lethal edge, "this lawless gutter is not the place for it. You are free to visit me in private... instead of orchestrating this cheap, pathetic scene like a desperate street dog."

Before Bellero could reply, the mob’s screaming reached a terrifying peak.

"Execute the monster!" a man shouted from the left.

"He doesn’t get to walk out of 3rd Street alive today!" another voice roared, and several heavy rocks rained down on the vehicles, bouncing off the metal frames with loud, explosive thuds.

Dorrent stepped forward, entirely ignoring his father’s protective stance and his mother’s frantic tugging on his shirt. He stood at the front of the security line, his frame completely exposed to the angry crowd. He opened his mouth, his resonant baritone attempting to cut through the noise to deliver his statement, but the protesters refused to give him a single second of silence. They drowned his voice out with unbridled hostility, hurling curses, insults, and threats at his name, completely deaf to any explanation or evidence he tried to offer.

"Don’t let him speak!" Mr. Dromote shrieked, raising his pipe high. "His tongue is as toxic as his hands! Kill him!"

The crowd surged forward violently, slamming against the security people’s riot shields, the iron bars and wooden beams clattering loudly against the metal armor of the guards. The situation was spiraling into an absolute, bloody riot.

Suddenly—

"STOP IT! ALL OF YOU, STOP!"

A loud, booming voice tore through the chaotic roar of the mob.

It was a rough, weathered voice— carrying a desperate authority that made the front lines of the crowd hesitate.

Slowly, the shouting began to die down as hundreds of heads turned toward the far corner of the alleyway.

A middle-aged man stepped out from the shadows of a narrow side-lane. He was wearing a faded, grease-stained mechanic’s jumpsuit, his hair streaked with salt-and-pepper grey, his face worn by years of hard labor in the industrial yards. His left leg dragged slightly as he walked, but his eyes were wide, clear, and filled with a terrifying urgency as he marched into the center of the standoff.

The man stopped just ten paces from where Dorrent, Guron, and Bellero stood. He took a heavy, broken breath, his chest heaving as he pointed a trembling finger at the crowd—and then swung it straight toward Bellero Boren.

"Shut your mouths, all of you!" the middle-aged man shouted out loud, his voice echoing off with clarity. "You are all being played like complete fools! It was NOT Dorrent Grefo’s doing nine years ago!"

The entire alleyway went dead silent.

The silence fell so fast, so heavy, that even the idling hum of the transports sounded deafening in the quiet morning air. The slum residents stared at the mechanic in jaw-dropping astonishment, their weapons slowly lowering as his words registered in their minds.

Jannah’s breath caught sharply in her throat, her eyes widening as she stared at the stranger. Dorrent’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around Jannah’s waist as he tracked the man’s every move.

Up on the edge of the crowd, Bellero Boren’s confident, psychopathic smirk completely froze.

The color instantly drained from the old Mafia lord’s face, his golden eyes widening in shock as he recognized the mechanic’s scarred features. His hands tightened around his cane with such immense force that his knuckles turned stark white, panic piercing through his composure.

Bellero’s jaw twitched, his breath trapping itself in his throat as a whisper escaped his pale lips:

"Oh... shit."