Bang.
A shot cut Santino off mid-sentence. The lobby's atmosphere went instantly stone-cold.
Ten Camorra shooters reflexively drew and aimed at Alex. Beside Alex, Anna and eight Sisterhood operatives raised their weapons to meet them. The Continental's enforcers also had their pistols out—some aimed at Alex's group, some at the ten Camorra men, others at Hallstatt killers and the bounty hunters in the crowd.
A brutal firefight seemed inevitable.
Then—someone screamed. A raw, wrenching howl that stole everyone's attention.
Blood flowed in a small, steady stream. With each wrenching scream Santino made, fresh blood poured from his mouth. At the same time, an awful smell of urine spread from between his legs.
Alex didn't lower his gun. He kept his muzzle trained, a faint smirk on his face. The shot had been surgical—one bullet through Santino's swollen cheek. To any casual onlooker it might have looked like Alex had aimed for Santino's head and pulled the trigger.
Would Alex have killed Santino? Sure — he'd gladly do it. But to needlessly provoke the entire High Table over such a man? Even if he could bear the cost, Alex wouldn't waste himself on that kind of stupidity.
Still, that didn't mean he'd tolerate Santino's continual provocations. And after Daniel's message earlier, there had been a dark thought in Alex's mind. He had weighed options: check the magazines, sit on the sofa to think, even ask for a bowl of noodles for no reason at all. That had been his inner process—kill intent, weighting the pros and cons, deciding how to handle Santino.
In the end, Alex chose: Santino had to die tonight. But not inside the Continental.
He finished his noodles, set the bowl aside, and handed it to the Concierge. Then, looking toward the approaching hotel manager, Alex said with a hint of apology:
"Ms. Pario, it seems neither I nor Mr. Antonio should stay at the Continental. In less than a day we've caused trouble."
"Mr. Cross, that may be for the best," the manager replied politely. "Ms. Misopolis' suite will remain reserved. As for you and your associates, the Continental cannot welcome you for the next 24 hours."
The manager's professional courtesy was precise and cold. She turned then and addressed the bleeding Santino on the floor.
"Mr. Antonio, you and your men must also leave. The Continental will not be able to receive you for the next 24 hours."
Santino's screams intensified. Alex's face, however, broke into a smile.
Twenty-four hours, huh?
He glanced at Anna, then at the eight Sisterhood operatives, and finally fixed his gaze on Santino as the Camorra men helped him to his feet and began to escort him outside.
Alex walked behind them. Passing Daniel, he paused and glanced at the bounty hunters in the lobby—faces bright with predatory anticipation. He offered a cold laugh.
"I look forward to you trying to hunt me down. But before that happens, I suggest you learn something about the Lighthouse Organization."
With that, he moved on, Anna and the Sisterhood at his side, toward the exit. A few bounty hunters trailed them; others had already begun researching the Lighthouse through their own channels.
The ten Camorra killers steadied Santino on the red carpet outside. At that moment, the hotel manager intervened. Seconds later, two brand-new SUVs pulled up in front of them. The concierge took the keys from the driver and politely addressed Santino.
"Mr. Antonio, we regret that you've twice suffered harm within the Continental. As compensation, the hotel is pleased to provide two vehicles."
He handed the key to one of Santino's men. Under the manager's watchful eye, they climbed in and drove off.
Although they had left the hotel grounds, neither side could attack openly; Alex and his group still stood on Continental property. They could only watch the SUVs vanish around the corner.
When the manager turned back, he handed two other keys to Alex.
"Mr. Cross, I'm truly sorry your stay was marred by a violent incident. As compensation, the Continental will gift you these two SUVs — basic ballistic upgrades already installed."
"Thank you," Alex said, accepting. It was hotel policy: any guest harmed during their stay was owed compensation.
Alex slid into the driver's seat of one of the SUVs and watched the bounty hunters still pinned on the red carpet. He flashed a small smile and spoke to the driver.
"Heather—drive. Catch up to our prey. Over the next 24 hours, let's make Prague shake."
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If you're interested, you can read advanced chapters:
pat reon .com / Samorash