Lahat ng Kabanata ng Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

The air in the clinic room shifts.It snaps tight, like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.Drakon stands by the door. The grief is gone. The relief is gone. He is a statue carved from granite and hate."Leon," he barks."President," Leon responds instantly."The list," Drakon says. He racks the slide of his Glock. Click-clack. "I want every Reaper business on it. The chop shops. The stash houses. The bars on 5th and Main.""We have the locations from the ledger Thalia grabbed," Leon says, pulling his phone. "But we don't have the numbers to hit them all.""We don't need numbers," Drakon snarls. "We need gasoline."He turns to Markos. The kid is still grinning about the paternity test, but the smile dies when he sees Drakon’s face."Markos," Drakon says. "Get the road crew. Whatever is left of the nomads. Tell them it’s open season. No tags. No colors. We go in black.""We burning them out?" Markos asks."We are liquidating the assets," Drakon says. "If it has a Reaper skull o

"They have him."Leon’s words hang in the sterile air of the recovery room, heavy as lead.Before Drakon can speak, before the horror can fully register in his eyes, a sound tears through the night outside.SCREEECH.Tires lock up on asphalt. An engine roars and then dies with a shuddering cough right outside the clinic doors."The bay," Drakon rasps.He moves. He doesn't run; he explodes toward the door, shoving Leon aside.I slide off the bed. My legs are weak, my head swims, but I follow. I have to."Thalia, stay back!" Leon shouts, chasing Drakon.I ignore him. I grab the doorframe for support and push myself into the hallway.The double doors of the emergency bay burst open.The cold night air rushes in, carrying the smell of diesel exhaust and something sharper. Copper.A gray van is parked haphazardly in the ambulance lane, its side door sliding open with a rusted groan.Two men—nomads I don't know—jump out. Their clothes are dark, soaked.They reach into the back. They pull a

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.The bathroom tiles explode.Shards of ceramic and drywall spray over us like shrapnel. Drakon covers my body with his own, his heavy frame a shield against the hail of bullets punching through the wall."Stay down!" he roars, his voice barely audible over the mechanical whir of the drone outside.The mirror shatters, raining glass into the sink. The noise is deafening—a continuous, ripping sound that tears the air apart."We can't stay here!" I scream, pressing my face into the wet bathmat. "It's cutting through the wall!""Hallway," Drakon barks.He rolls off me. He grabs a towel from the rack—miraculously intact—and throws it at me. He wraps another around his waist."Move!"He kicks the bathroom door open.We scramble out. We don't stand up. We crawl. We lizard-crawl across the bedroom floor, dragging ourselves through the sea of broken glass that used to be the window.The drone adjusts. The red laser dot sweeps across the bed, hunting.TAT-TAT-TAT.The mattress e

"Eleni," Drakon chokes out.He takes a step forward, his boot scuffing the wet concrete of the pier. His shotgun lowers slightly, the barrel dipping toward the ground as the shock overrides his training."Stay back!" Nikos screams. He jabs the muzzle of his rifle into Eleni’s temple.She flinches. Her eyes—swollen, terrified, but still Drakon’s eyes—lock onto her brother. She shakes her head against the gag. Don't come. Don't die for me.Kyros stands behind them, elevated on the deck of a massive white yacht docked at the end of the pier. The boat is a floating palace of glass and steel, gleaming under the floodlights. It is the throne he promised his son."You look surprised, Drakon," Kyros calls out. His voice is amplified, booming over the sound of the wind and the lapping waves. "Did you think I killed her? I told you. I don't waste assets.""Let her go," Drakon roars. "This is between us!""It was never between us," Kyros says, leaning on the railing of the yacht. "It was between

"Father!"The scream shreds the night air. It’s thin, high-pitched, desperate.Nikos runs to the very edge of the pier. His shoes—expensive Italian leather, now scuffed and muddy—skid on the wet concrete. He flails his arms, nearly pitching forward into the black, churning water."Wait!" he shrieks. "You forgot me! I'm here!"The yacht doesn't slow down. It doesn't turn. The red running lights on the stern fade into the fog, small glowing eyes blinking shut one by one. The wake washes against the pilings below us, a rhythmic, mocking slap.Kyros is gone.Nikos stands there, his hand still outstretched, reaching for a kingdom that just sailed away.He lowers his arm slowly. His shoulders slump. He looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut.He turns around.He sees the wall of shipping containers. He sees the shadows stretching across the pier.And he sees us.Drakon steps out from the darkness. He holds the shotgun in one hand, the barrel resting against his thigh. He doesn't rai