Page 66 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)
Carlos sputtered on the backdraft of his own rage—his brain short-circuiting between fear and anger—then issued his command like a petulant child denied his toy. “Shoot them! Kill them all!”
Matt’s world narrowed to the pinpoint focus of survival and rescue.
He’d always had a talent for reading the room—call it a sixth sense for when the chips were about to fall.
Now, every cell in his body screamed that this was the moment, the precipice of violence from which there was no turning back.
With the grace of a seasoned gunslinger, Matt drew his weapon, a fluid extension of his will.
His finger caressed the trigger like a lover’s promise—swift, sure, and deadly.
The report of the gun sliced through the chaos, and Carlos’ command died with him, a perfect circle of silence between his brows.
James, ever the sharpshooter, was a machine of lethality. His movements were fluid, each pull of the trigger ending with another enemy crumpling to the ground. He moved through the room with the grace of a dancer, deadly and unerring.
William dove low, rolling with feline agility across the grimy floor. He came up behind a rusted steel column, both guns drawn and firing in rapid succession. The sly smile that tugged at his lips spoke volumes; this was his element—chaos wrapped in gunpowder and steel.
Tory’s approach was art in motion. He flowed through the fight like water around stones—each kick, punch, and shot a seamless part of his choreography. His movements were an elegant blend of martial prowess and deadly accuracy, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.
The warehouse erupted into chaos—a storm of bullets and blood that turned the air metallic with violence.
Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off steel beams and concrete walls, adding brief flashes of light to the dim space.
Bodies hit the floor one after another, their lives extinguished in rapid succession.
In minutes that felt like hours, silence fell as abruptly as it had shattered. The Mexicans lay sprawled in pools of their own making—blood turning the concrete dark and slick.
William sighed, holstering his weapon with a casual flourish. “Well, that was disappointingly brief.”
“Could’ve used more resistance,” Tory agreed, sliding his gun back into its concealed holster with a shrug.
Matt ignored their banter; his focus narrowed to a single purpose. He stormed toward the corridor, each step fueled by urgency and fear for Andy.
The four men set upon the doors like wolves upon sheep—kicking and bashing until wood splintered and metal bent.
It was William who found it—the last door guarding their prize.
Matt’s heart thundered loudly in his chest as he descended into the depths of the building, his voice, usually so commanding, now trembled with raw fear.
“Andy!” The name tore from his throat, a plea to the void that swallowed it whole.
He skidded to a halt at the sight before him.
Andy lay sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his form as still as death.
The sight was like a punch to Matt’s gut—a brutal, vicious assault on his senses.
Andy looked like a discarded puppet whose strings had been cut, every bruise and streak of blood a testament to the cruelty he had endured.
Bile churned in Matt’s stomach; it was one thing to know about brutality, another to see its aftermath painted across someone he—God help him—cared about. His legs moved of their own accord, bringing him to Andy’s side in frantic steps.
Matt’s stomach twisted into a knot, his insides a roiling sea of dread and bile.
He knelt beside Andy, hands trembling as they lifted the young man’s fragile form, and Andy’s head lolled back.
Andy’s face was marred with wounds that told unspeakable stories, and Matt’s whole body trembled with the weight of it all.
This wasn’t just any face—it was Andy’s: the plucky kid with the lightning wit who could spin laughter out of thin air.
Matt’s heart lurched. “Hey,” he croaked, voice barely a whisper over the lump in his throat.
Andy’s eyelids fluttered weakly, those brown eyes that once danced with mischief now dull with pain and confusion—a pair of glazed windows to a battered soul. “Matt… I’m not… hallucinating, am… I?” His voice was barely there—a ghost of sound.
“No, pet,” Matt assured him with all the tenderness of a confession whispered in the dark. “No hallucinations. I’ve got you.”
Relief washed over Andy’s features—a smile flickering there for just a moment before darkness claimed him again.
Behind Matt, James’ voice sliced through the tension. “We need to get him to a hospital, now!”
Without hesitation, Matt rose with Andy cradled in his arms as if he were something precious and irreplaceable—which, damn it all to hell, he was.
Outside, the predawn light had lost its battle with daybreak, and medics descended upon them like guardian angels clad in navy blue scrubs. They took Andy from Matt’s arms with practiced urgency, and for a moment Matt was lost—watching them whisk Andy away left him hollowed out.
Tory stepped forward, his voice pulling Matt back from the precipice of despair. “Go to Andy,” Tory said firmly. “We’ll clean up this mess.”
With a curt nod, Matt clambered into the waiting car, his thoughts a whirlwind of what-ifs and prayers whispered to any deity listening. As Vegas gave way to sterile hospital corridors, Matt clung to hope like a lifeline in a raging sea.
The hospital, a beacon of modern medicine under the Caine family’s illustrious banner, received Matt with a swift efficiency that was both reassuring and impersonal.
Matt paced the sterile corridor like a caged lion.
His thoughts ran wild—prayers, curses, bargains with any deity that would listen—all for Andy’s safety.
Time crawled by on hands and knees until the doctor finally emerged, looking as unruffled as if he’d done nothing more taxing than complete a particularly challenging crossword puzzle.
“Mr. Caine,” he began with a practiced calm that grated on Matt’s last nerve.
“Well?” Matt demanded, his voice tight with barely leashed panic.
“Mr. Donovan is stable,” the doctor said, and it was as if he’d thrown Matt a lifeline. “No internal injuries, but he did lose quite a bit of blood. We’re giving him a transfusion now.”
A deep breath shuddered out of Matt’s chest—a tempest of relief. “Thank you,” he managed to say, though it felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper.
Soon after, Matt found himself sitting beside Andy in a private room that whispered luxury in every artful detail—a room reserved for those whose bank accounts were as padded as the plush armchairs that graced its corners.
Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin; his eyes drooped shut, and despite his best efforts to remain vigilant, sleep claimed him in its silent grasp.
It was late afternoon when Andy’s eyes fluttered open—a flicker of consciousness returning to his battered form. At his side in an instant, Matt clasped Andy’s hands with an intensity born of fear and longing.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he teased, taking Andy’s hand in his own.
Andy stared at him long and hard before his lips curved into a weak smile. “Matt? You’re real, right?”
Matt chuckled softly. “Of course I’m real, pet.”
“You look horrible,” Andy observed with frankness only the bedridden could afford.
“And here I thought I’d mastered the rugged billionaire look,” Matt replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Andy snorted. “You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge fund. What about me?” he winced slightly as he shifted in bed. “I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”
Matt laughed—a sound like sunlight breaking through clouds—and it filled the room with warmth and life until Andy laughed too, only to groan as pain lanced through him. Matt leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to Andy’s lips—a promise wrapped in tenderness.
“I love you,” he whispered against those bruised lips—words heavy with emotion and unguarded truth.
Andy swallowed hard before whispering back, his gaze softening, “Love you too—flaws, irritations and all.”
Matt grinned—a glint in his eye now. “I’ll work harder at being irritating just for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Andy’s voice was soft but carried an edge of challenge. “Just wait until I’m better. I’ll be arming myself with your silk tie—and then you’d better prepare yourself.”
“I’m always prepared for you,” Matt assured him with an intensity that promised more than words could say. “And I’m looking forward to being lovingly tortured by my little spitfire.”