Page 57 of The Beast's Broken Angel

BEAUTIFUL DESTRUCTION

ADRIAN

I had set my lads around the Camden warehouse like I was playing fucking chess with human pieces. Every move calculated to turn Harrison's little trap into his tomb. Twenty years that bastard had been taking the piss, and tonight, I am going to watch the life drain from his eyes real slow.

The warehouse district at night was my kind of playground. Concrete and steel where screams bounced off walls and no cunt gave a shit about gunshots. Perfect place to paint the walls red and leave bodies for the rats.

“Got the place locked down tight, boss,” Dominic's voice had crackled through my earpiece.

Stubborn prick had insisted on coming despite Noah patching him up.

Should have told him to fuck off, but I needed every killer I could get.

“Harrison's coming in from the east, just like we thought. Proper military setup this lot. Not some street thugs with rusty blades.”

I was watching the heat signatures move through my scope like little glowing targets. Harrison had brought serious firepower, but the stupid cunt didn't know what happened when you threatened a Calloway on our turf. We didn't just kill you. We made art out of your screams.

My eyes flicked to where Noah was positioned with Viktor watching his back.

“Harrison's convoy just rolled up,” came through the comm. “Three motors, heavy escort. Twelve shooters plus his personal bodyguards. Two minutes till they're in the kill zone.”

“All teams, light them up,” I commanded, and Camden turned into hell.

It was beautiful, watching my boys work. Like a fucking ballet made of bullets and blood. Harrison's security never stood a chance against lads who had learned to kill in Belfast and Baghdad. Professional soldiers against street thugs who had grown up stabbing each other for fun.

Gunfire echoed through the district like music, muzzle flashes lighting up the night like deadly fireworks. Through my scope I watched Dominic's team cut through Harrison's muscle like they were made of paper. Bodies dropping, blood spraying, proper fucking chaos.

“Secondary targets down,” Dominic reported, blood splattered across his face like war paint. “Eight confirmed kills. Rest are running like the cowards they were. Harrison's trapped in the middle vehicle, sitting pretty for us.”

The concrete was painted red by then, expensive tactical gear soaked through with blood under the orange lights.

I moved in personally for the main event. Tradition demanded I handle significant betrayals myself. The warehouse looked like a slaughterhouse, walls pockmarked with bullet holes and painted with arterial spray that would take bleach and prayer to clean off.

Harrison still had his composure when Dominic dragged him to the chair. Silver hair barely mussed, expensive suit still pristine despite being surrounded by the corpses of his boys. Looking disappointed rather than terrified, like he had lost a bet rather than was about to lose his life.

Made me want to cut his face off just to see if he'd keep that calm expression.

“Your little show's unnecessary, Adrian,” Harrison said, adjusting his cuffs despite the zip ties round his wrists. “Business disagreements should be handled through negotiation, not this barbaric display.”

Still playing the legitimate businessman even with his security team bleeding out around us. Made my fingers itch for the knife.

“Business disagreement?” I laughed, the sound bouncing off concrete walls still warm with fresh blood. “That what we're calling twenty years of stealing from my family then?”

I circled him like a shark, savoring every second I had been waiting for since I was a kid. Got my key lieutenants watching, witnesses needed for what came next. This wasn't just an execution. It was a fucking statement.

Harrison watched me circle, that infuriating calm still plastered across his face. “Adrian, surely we can discuss this like civilized men. There's been a misunderstanding?—”

“Misunderstanding?” I stopped directly in front of him, close enough to see the sweat beading at his temples despite his composed act. “That's what you're going with?”

“The financial arrangements were complex, yes, but hardly?—”

“Found your little financial games six months ago,” I started, letting my voice carry so everyone could hear. “Systematic theft disguised as portfolio management. Clever work, hiding that much money for so long. Must have taken real skill to rob us blind for decades.”

Harrison straightened in his chair despite the zip ties, slipping into the role he'd perfected over twenty years.

“Adrian, you're misunderstanding the complexity of modern financial management.” His voice carried that same condescending tone he'd used in countless board meetings.

“The global markets have experienced unprecedented volatility. Currency fluctuations alone required immediate portfolio adjustments to prevent catastrophic losses.”

He paused, tilting his head like a professor addressing a particularly slow student.

“The diversification into offshore instruments wasn't theft—it was prudent risk management.

Your family's assets needed protection from regulatory scrutiny and market instability.

I've been safeguarding your inheritance, not stealing it.”

“Safeguarding,” I repeated, letting the knife catch the light.

“Precisely. The Turner situation, for instance—their territorial expansion created operational inefficiencies that impacted our revenue streams. By temporarily reallocating funds through secondary channels, I minimized exposure while maintaining cash flow.” Harrison's eyes never left mine, still believing his silver tongue could save him.

“Every allocation was temporary, pending reinvestment once market conditions stabilized. Basic portfolio theory, really.”

Professional to the bitter fucking end.

“The Turner brothers were a nice touch,” I continued, selecting my favorite knife from the spread Dominic had laid out.

The blade caught the harsh light, designed for extracting truth and causing maximum pain.

“Setting up a rival crew while skimming our take. Operational losses made perfect cover for your theft.”

“Market forces require adaptive strategies,” Harrison replied smoothly, like we were in a boardroom instead of standing in a pool of his men's blood. “Temporary setbacks are inevitable in dynamic economic environments. ”

Christ, the man's dedication to his act was almost admirable. Almost.

Harrison's mask finally slipped when I showed him Hayes' intelligence report. Government investigation details, corruption evidence, political manipulation that went way beyond simple criminal enterprise.

“You'd been buying judges,” I stated, letting the knife trace patterns across his expensive suit. “Regulatory authorities. Cops. Infrastructure that went beyond criminal empire into running the whole fucking system.”

The blade parted his shirt like silk, drawing thin red lines that seeped through white cotton. His breathing quickened, first crack in that legendary composure.

“You think too small, Adrian,” Harrison finally admitted, dropping the act as reality set in. “Your father understood the bigger picture before his unfortunate resistance made elimination necessary.”

There it was. Confirmation of what I had suspected for months, delivered with casual indifference that made murder sing in my veins.

“Criminal enterprises were merely the accumulation phase,” Harrison continued, apparently deciding full confession was his best remaining play. “Real power required controlling the government itself. Your father's sentimental attachment to old methods became a liability to our broader objectives.”

The casual confession of my parents' murder hit me like a physical blow, confirmation still delivering unexpected impact that threatened my operational focus.

“You ordered my parents killed,” I repeated, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that made hardened killers back away. The knife in my hand suddenly felt inadequate for what this bastard deserved.

Harrison's smile held genuine condescension despite his position, like a teacher explaining obvious concepts to a thick student.

“Your father became a liability,” he said with analytical detachment, describing a business decision rather than the torture and murder of people I had loved. “His resistance to certain political arrangements threatened our infrastructure development. Removal became organizationally necessary.”

“And the fire?” I asked, feeling control slip as rage built toward the breaking point. “My scars? Were those 'organizationally necessary' too?”

“Intended distraction for the authorities,” Harrison explained with the same clinical tone, like discussing the weather rather than burning a child alive.

“Evidence elimination combined with creating a sympathetic narrative. The surviving child providing succession legitimacy while remaining controllable through trauma response.”

Each word was another nail in his coffin, another reason his death would be neither quick nor clean. The revelation that my childhood torture had been calculated rather than collateral damage made something fundamental break in my chest.

“Your grandfather understood pragmatic necessity,” Harrison added, apparently determined to destroy every foundation I had built my life on.

The mention of my grandfather's involvement shattered what control I had left. The knife clattered to concrete as my hands closed around Harrison's throat with killing intent, twenty years of manipulation culminating in the destruction of my last family loyalty.

“You lying piece of shit,” I snarled, squeezing as his face turned purple. “My grandfather would never?—”