It Went Wrong

Earlier, acting on Luca's instructions, Shamira had followed Dragan all the way to a secluded corner at the edge of the cemetery.

She had planned to teach the bastard a lesson and try to find out why he had stepped in to cause trouble.

This wasn't the first time Shamira had done something like this.

It was just that, in the past, she had usually acted on orders from Luca's mother, Gina.

With the head of the family unconscious and her employer dead, Shamira herself saw nothing wrong with having young master Luca take the lead.

The only thing that worried her was that the young master, who had once been kindhearted and rarely dealt with this side of the family's affairs, now had to force himself to act mature and handle everything. It seemed too cruel.

By contrast, Shamira had no qualms about dealing with the useless man before her, who had once nearly become head of the family.

In fact, if she hadn't been thinking of Luca's recent instructions, she would have considered simply killing the bastard in secret and being done with it.

Seeing that no one was around, Shamira quickly bent down and drew a glinting dagger from her boot.

Then, in just a few strides, she caught up with Dragan, kicked him to the ground, and pressed the dagger to his throat.

"Ah—"

Dragan was about to cry out in panic when Shamira's rough palm clamped firmly over his mouth.

It stifled the rest of his screams.

Looking at Dragan, who was nothing like his earlier arrogant self, Shamira pressed the dagger down slightly and spoke in a fierce tone.

"You know what I want to ask, don't you?!"

The sharp dagger dug into his neck, and bright red blood immediately began to flow.

Dragan had lost all his earlier arrogance. His already vacant eyes were now filled with terror.

His face was pale, whether from fright or simply because his body was so depleted.

He struggled desperately, making muffled "mmph" sounds.

Seeing this, Shamira lifted her hand to signal that he could speak.

Dragan was so terrified he hardly dared call for help. He only trembled as he demanded,

"You—you! What do you want?! I'm an heir to the Orange Family too!"

Shamira looked at him with disdain and didn't ease the pressure of her hand.

"Dragan, out of respect for Madam, tell me..."

Before Shamira could finish, her sharp eyes noticed that Dragan's frightened expression had suddenly relaxed. He was staring straight at something behind her.

Without wasting a word, Shamira immediately ducked and rolled to the side.

The next instant, a small hole exploded in the spot where Shamira had just been.

Several faint gunshots followed in quick succession.

Shamira rolled rapidly again and again, stopping only when she reached an unfamiliar gravestone. She paused to catch her breath.

"Pew-pew-pew—"

The gunfire continued to pin her down, scattering chips of stone across the surface of the rather ornate gravestone.

"Three enemies. P226s, suppressors, subsonic rounds!"

From the sounds and bullet holes, Shamira quickly judged where the enemies were. At the same time, she reached into her coat.

As a bodyguard, she naturally carried a firearm too, though she hadn't brought a suppressor like her opponents.

Her mind racing, Shamira made a quick decision.

As the explosions striking the gravestone behind her began to die down, her muscles tensed. Like a powerful she-leopard, she suddenly burst out from behind cover.

Her hawk-like gaze swept across the area ahead.

Three enemies in black suits held guns. One was still shooting, another was reloading, and the last was roughly dragging Dragan away as he stumbled and crawled.

Shamira drove off the balls of her feet and darted sideways several times in quick succession.

She ignored the man in black who was still shooting, letting the bullets skim past her.

At the same time, she forcefully snapped her veined forearm forward.

"Whoosh—"

The dagger flew from her hand.

It cut through the air like a sword and struck the reloading gunman squarely in the face.

"Thud."

Blood sprayed everywhere.

He didn't even have time to scream before toppling backward.

Just then, the man in black who had been shooting ran his magazine dry.

Shamira didn't even look at the gunman still pulling the trigger to no avail, the mechanism clicking again and again.

She pushed off with her feet once more.

Rotten leaves burst into the air behind her.

Shamira raced toward Dragan, who was being dragged away.

But she had barely taken two steps when her expression changed.

It wasn't because the man supporting Dragan had drawn a pistol to shoot back.

It was because three more gunmen in black had appeared in the distant woods, aiming at her.

She was still seven or eight steps away from Dragan and his companion. There was no time to reach them and use close combat to make the enemies hesitate for fear of hitting their own man.

She immediately ducked low and took cover behind another obstacle.

Bullets pattered against the outside of her cover like dense raindrops.

Shamira had no choice but to reach for the pistol in her coat again.

But when she leaned out from cover this time and raised her gun to aim,

all she could see was the last man in black dragging the body of the man she had killed with her flying dagger back toward the woods.

The others had already vanished into the trees.

The muscles in her arm tensed, then relaxed.

In the end, Shamira chose not to pull the trigger.

This place was secluded, but the sound of her gun could easily draw other people's attention and bring unnecessary trouble.

She wasn't sure she could get away unscathed, either.

Besides, since the enemies had been so brazen about using firearms, she had to get to Luca quickly and protect him.

She waited behind cover for a while. Once she had confirmed that the enemies were all gone, she tucked away her pistol, got up, and hurried toward Luca.

Elsewhere.

Dragan, who had just been rescued, was dragged into a Stretch Lincoln by one of the men in black.

The men who had protected him earlier didn't get in.

The door closed quietly.

Still shaken, Dragan gasped for breath, but didn't dare look at the refined young man sitting opposite him in the car.

"Mr. Orange, it seems you've made a mess of things?"

The speaker wore a neat, finely tailored black suit and square black-framed glasses. He had the air of a consummate financial professional.

Yet that casual remark made Dragan, already terrified, tremble uncontrollably.

"W-Wesley, this... this isn't my fault. That little bastard Luca is to blame for everything. He doesn't even recognize me as his uncle!"

The more Dragan spoke, the angrier he grew, as if he had completely forgotten his irrational behavior from earlier.

"Is that so? Then why did my men report that you didn't act as though you were close to him at all?"