Page 95 of Sinful Obsession

A fleet of black SUVs lined the street, and a hundred men in tailored suits stood in formation, their guns glinting under the streetlights.

Three figures stepped forward—Anthony, a broad man with a scarred jaw; Elena, a sharp-eyed woman with a coiled intensity; and Marcus, lean and calculating. They bowed in unison, their respect palpable.

“You just need to give the order,” Anthony said, his voice steady.

“Let’s get to it,” I said, my heart pounding but my resolve ironclad.

They led me to a waiting chopper, its blades slicing the air.

I glanced back at Cassian, who stood by the vault’s entrance, his silhouette a promise of support.I hope I’ll be back,I thought, the weight of my children anchoring my determination.

In the chopper, Anthony sat beside me, his voice cutting through the roar of the engines.

“Your father’s compound is fortified, but we know its weaknesses—supply lines, guard rotations. Strike the armory and his comms tower first; it’ll cripple his defenses. Your brother Vincent runs security—sloppy, but ruthless. Leave him to us.”

I nodded, my hands gripping the seat as the chopper soared over the city.

The chopper landed in a clearing near my father’s compound, a sprawling estate ringed by electrified fences and floodlights.

The night erupted into chaos as gunfire cracked, sharp and relentless, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder.

My father’s men, clad in tactical gear, fired from behind barricades, their bullets pinging off the chopper’s hull.

Anthony’s team returned fire, their movements precise, cutting through the enemy like a blade.

Shouts and screams mingled with the roar of explosions, the ground shaking as a grenade detonated near the armory.

Anthony grabbed my arm, pulling me toward a concrete bunker half-hidden by overgrown vines. “Stay here,” he said, shoving a bulletproof vest into my hands. “You don’t have to shoot—just stay safe and let us handle this.”

“I want my father and Vincent alive,” I said, my voice firm as I slipped on the vest.

He nodded, jogging back into the fray, his silhouette swallowed by the smoke.

I crouched behind the bunker’s wall, the cold concrete pressing against my back, my heart racing as gunfire echoed.

My mind flashed to Asher and Aria, their laughter, their small hands in mine.

Nothing could happen to me—not now, not when they needed me.

The thought of them losing their mother to this quest for revenge was a knife in my chest.

We had to win.

A deafening explosion rocked the compound, and I peeked out to see our chopper engulfed in flames, its wreckage lighting the night.

My breath caught, panic surging, but I forced myself to stay still, my hands covering my ears as gunfire roared again.

Hours seemed to pass, the chaos a relentless blur, until Anthony emerged from the smoke, jogging toward me.

His suit was torn, blood streaking his arm, sweat dripping from his brow. “We did it, Boss,” he panted. “Your father and Vincent are secured at the compound’s center.”

I stood, my legs unsteady, and followed him through the wreckage.

The compound was a battlefield of shattered glass and smoldering debris, the air thick with dust.

At the center, my father and Vincent knelt, hands bound behind their backs, their faces bruised and defiant.

My father’s eyes burned with rage, his silver hair disheveled. Vincent, younger but no less cruel, glared beside him.