James Sullivan waited inside the grand room like a king, seated comfortably in a high-backed leather armchair, his gaze fixed on the doorway with steely anticipation.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting shadows across the polished wooden floors, and the air was thick with the faint smell of leather and cigar smoke.
He’d envisioned this moment all afternoon—the sight of Ross being dragged in, broken and humbled. But as the door swung open, the reality was nothing like he had imagined.
A frown creased James’s sharp, handsome features. There, at the forefront, was Ross, strolling in as if he owned the place. Behind him, more than half a dozen of James’s own bodyguards filed in, looking more like Ross’s entourage than captors.
Ross’s confident stride, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips—everything about him was wrong. He was supposed to be beaten down, subdued. Instead, he looked utterly unfazed, as if this meeting was just another part of his day.
James’s hands gripped the armrests tightly, his knuckles turning white. He rose from his chair, his voice booming across the room.
"What’s going on here? Why is that punk still walking around like he owns this house?" His face twisted in fury as he glared at the men, each of whom was now visibly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Do I have to do everything myself?"
The leader of the gang, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his left cheek, cleared his throat, looking both apologetic and confused.
"He came willingly, boss," he explained, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Didn’t put up a fight, didn’t say a word or reason to beat him up. In fact, he looked quite relaxed from start to finish. Figured there was no reason to rough him up."
James’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t believe the sheer incompetence of his men. Here was Ross, strolling in with a calm confidence that turned the entire situation on its head, making James feel like the one being challenged. The longer Ross stood there, unruffled and amused, the more his presence grated on James’s nerves.
Ross took a few more steps forward, stopping a respectful distance from James, yet still radiating an air of superiority. He glanced around the room with casual interest, as if inspecting it, then raised an eyebrow at James, his smirk widening.
"So, James fucking Sullivan," he drawled, "you got a good place here? Just not quite the fortress I imagined."
James’s nostrils flared, and he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger. He had planned for this moment, carefully orchestrated it—but now Ross was turning it into a spectacle, a joke. The realization stung, and he could feel his control slipping with each second that passed.
"Enough with the games, Ross," James spat, his voice low and threatening. "You may have taken Jasmine from me but you ain’t going to leave this place alive. This I promise you!"
Ross shrugged, his relaxed stance unwavering. "That so?" he replied, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Well, I do like promises. Let’s see if you live up to all the hype, James."
The tension in the room was palpable, the silence heavy as both men locked eyes, each sizing the other up. James’s men shifted uneasily, casting nervous glances between their boss and Ross, unsure of what would come next.
They hadn’t expected Ross to be this calm, and they certainly hadn’t expected their boss to be this rattled.
Finally, James let out a bitter laugh, though his eyes remained cold. "You’re going to regret this attitude, Ross. I promise you that much."
Ross’s smirk didn’t waver. "Promises, promises," he replied.
"Beat him up, but don’t kill him. I want to cut him apart piece by piece and feed him to my dogs," James ordered, his eyes dark with malice. The weight of his command hung heavy in the air, palpable and menacing.
"Aye, aye, boss," the leader of the goons replied, turning to face Ross with a sinister grin. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing ominously in the room. "Game over, boy. Can’t say I’m sorry, though. I get paid big bucks to handle the dirty jobs."
Ross stood tall, unfazed, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "A pity," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "You might’ve lived to retirement if you hadn’t met me today."
The goon leader scoffed, his confidence unshaken. He had dealt with enough cocky victims to know that bravado often masked fear. People who lived in peace, sheltered from violence, didn’t understand how dark and dirty the world could be. He relished the moment as he took slow, deliberate steps toward Ross, savoring the impending confrontation.
With a wicked smile spreading across his face, he prepared to unleash his power. He stepped closer, aiming to deliver a devastating right hook that would knock Ross down in one brutal strike, ensuring that this would be the last time this boy would spout his nonsensical trash talk.
But the goon leader never got the chance.
"Crack!" The room filled with the sickening sound of something breaking—a sound so distinct that even James felt a twinge of unease. The goon leader looked down, eyes wide with horror, as he realized that Ross’s foot was firmly planted where his "family jewels" used to be. He staggered back, his bravado shattered in an instant.
"Oops," Ross smirked, his expression a mix of triumph and mockery. "You got a little too close. I don’t appreciate people invading my personal space… unless they’re beautiful women, of course." He chuckled as the goon leader dropped to his knees, clutching himself in agony, his face contorted in pain, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
The sound of screams filled the room, echoing off the walls, as the goon leader writhed on the floor, his pain palpable. The remaining bodyguards exchanged worried glances, uncertainty creeping into their ranks.
They had been expecting a quick and brutal fight, but this was unfolding in a way they hadn’t anticipated.