Messed Up

Previously, at Luca's instruction, Shamira had followed Dragan all the way to a secluded corner at the edge of the cemetery.

She intended to teach this bastard a good lesson and try to pry out of him why he had come forward to stir up trouble.

This wasn't the first time Shamira had done such a thing.

It was just that, in the past, it had mostly been under the orders of Luca's mother, Gina.

With the head of the house now in a coma and the master deceased, Shamira herself didn't feel there was anything wrong with young master Luca taking the lead.

The only thing that worried her slightly was that for the young master, who had previously been kind-hearted and rarely involved in the family's affairs, having to force himself to act mature and handle everything now seemed a bit too cruel.

On the contrary, Shamira felt no qualms at all about dealing with this piece of trash who had once nearly become the head of the house.

If not for Luca's recent instructions, Shamira had even considered finishing this bastard off in secret once and for all.

Seeing that no one was around, Shamira quickly leaned down and drew a dagger with a cold glint from her boot.

She then caught up to Dragan in a few strides, kicked him to the ground, and pressed the dagger against his throat.

"Ah—"

Just as the panicked Dragan was about to cry out, Shamira's rough palm clamped tightly over his mouth.

She stifled all his subsequent screams.

Looking at Dragan, who had lost all his previous arrogance, Shamira pressed the dagger down slightly, her tone sharp.

"You should know what I want to ask, right?!"

The sharp blade pressed into his neck, and bright red blood immediately began to flow.

At this moment, Dragan no longer had his former arrogance; only terror remained in his already dull eyes.

It was hard to tell if his pale complexion was from fear or simply because his body was too drained.

He struggled desperately, his mouth emitting continuous "woo-woo" sounds.

Seeing this, Shamira lifted her palm, signaling for him to speak.

Dragan, already half-scared out of his wits, didn't even dare to call for help loudly; he just trembled and questioned her.

"Y-you! What are you doing! I am also an heir of the Orange family!!"

Shamira showed disdain at these words, her grip not loosening in the slightest.

"Dragan, for the sake of the Madam, tell me your..."

Before Shamira could finish her sentence, she keenly noticed that Dragan, who had been terrified, suddenly relaxed, his eyes fixed directly behind her.

Without wasting a single word, Shamira immediately threw herself to the side and rolled.

The next moment, a small crater exploded where Shamira had been standing.

Immediately after, several faint gunshots followed in quick succession.

Shamira rolled rapidly until she reached the back of an ornate tombstone, where she stopped to catch her breath.

"Chirp, chirp, chirp—"

The continuous gunfire kept her pinned down, sending stone chips flying from the surface of the luxurious tombstone.

"Three enemies, P226, silencers, subsonic rounds!"

Based on the sounds and the bullet holes, Shamira quickly determined the enemies' positions while reaching into her coat.

As a bodyguard, she naturally carried a firearm, though she hadn't prepared a silencer like they had.

Her thoughts racing, Shamira made a quick decision.

As the sound of bullets striking the tombstone behind her began to taper off, Shamira's muscles tensed, and she lunged out from cover like a sturdy leopard.

Her hawk-like gaze swept across the distance.

Three enemies in black suits were holding guns; one was still firing, one was reloading, and the last was roughly dragging the scrambling Dragan to cover his escape.

Seeing this, Shamira pushed off with her feet, her body darting in rapid, continuous side-steps.

Ignoring the black-clad man who was still firing, she let the bullets whistle past her side.

At the same time, she exerted force through her taut forearm.

"Whoosh—"

The dagger was flung out at high speed.

Like a sharp sword, it tore through the air and struck the face of the reloading gunman without hesitation.

"Pfft~"

Blood splattered everywhere.

The man didn't even have time to let out a scream before he fell backward.

Just then, the gunman who had been firing continuously happened to empty his magazine.

Without even glancing at the man who was still uselessly pulling the trigger with a "click-click" sound, Shamira pushed off the ground once more.

Rotting leaves exploded behind her.

Shamira's lithe figure surged forward toward Dragan, who was being dragged away by his captor.

However, she had barely taken two steps before her expression shifted.

It was not because the man supporting Dragan had pulled out a handgun to retaliate.

It was because, at that very moment, three more gunmen in black had emerged from the dense forest in the distance, aiming directly at her.

Shamira was still seven or eight paces away from Dragan and his captor; there was no way she could reach them in time to force the enemies to hold their fire through close-quarters combat.

She immediately ducked low, diving behind cover once more.

Bullets whistled like a dense downpour, striking the outer side of her cover.

Shamira had no choice but to reach for the handgun tucked against her body.

Yet, by the time she leaned out from behind the cover and raised her weapon to aim, it was too late.

She could only watch as the last of the gunmen dragged the corpse she had taken down with her throwing knife back into the depths of the forest.

The others had already vanished into the woods.

The muscles in her arm tensed, then relaxed.

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

Although this position was concealed, the sound of her gunfire would likely attract unwanted attention and invite unnecessary trouble.

She wasn't certain she could escape unscathed, either.

Furthermore, since the enemy was using firearms so brazenly, she had to reach Luca quickly to ensure his safety.

After waiting behind the cover for a moment to confirm that the enemies had all departed, Shamira holstered her pistol, rose quickly, and hurried toward Luca's location.

On the other side.

Dragan, having just been rescued, was dragged and shoved by a man in black into a Stretch Lincoln.

The other men in black who had been protecting him did not follow him into the vehicle.

The car door clicked shut.

Dragan, still shaken to his core, gasped for air, yet he dared not look at the refined young man sitting opposite him in the carriage.

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

The speaker wore an exquisite, tailored black suit and a pair of square-rimmed glasses, exuding the unmistakable aura of a financial elite.

Yet, this light, airy remark caused Dragan, already trembling with terror, to shake uncontrollably.

"We... Wesley, this... this isn't my fault. It's that bastard brat Luca, it's all his fault! He doesn't even acknowledge me as his uncle!"

The more Dragan spoke, the angrier he became, as if he had completely forgotten his own mindless actions from earlier.

"Is that so? Then why did my men report that you showed absolutely no intention of getting close to him?"