The memories flashed before Mark's eyes like a grim slideshow. Sarah, his loyal assistant, gunned down in cold blood. Johnson, his trusted driver, killed in a car bomb explosion. Stefan, the quiet janitor, discovered days after the first excavation, his lifeless body a haunting reminder of the danger that haunted Mark. Mark's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he thought of all those who had been hurt by his enemies. The anger and pain simmered just below the surface, fueling his resolve to make them pay gravely for their sins. Mark's gaze shifted to the passenger side, where his new bodyguard, Saint, sat watching him with an expressionless face. Mark couldn't help but think, what's with bodyguards and their weird names? As Mark deviated from the planned route, Saint raised an eyebrow. "Where are we headed, sir?" He asked, his deep voice firm but polite. Mark's smile grew wider. "I need to see my father," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. As he drove, Mark's though
Elena sat on the couch, away from Mark, who was shedding tears, his pain was palpable. She could see the hurt went really deep, to his very soul. She wondered who could have committed such a heinous crime, killing the influential and almighty Gabriel Darius. The cruelty of it was unfathomable. For a brief moment, she suspected it might be the hand work of Number One, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Mark was inconsolable, refusing her attempts at comfort or words of solace. He had cancelled all his appointments for the day and ordered the premises to be closed to prevent anyone from coming in. Elena sat with him for a while longer, then rose up to answer her phone, which had begun ringing. She excused herself to take the call in her bedroom, leaving Mark alone with his grief. As she walked away, she couldn't help but feel a sense of unease, wondering who could have done such a thing, and what their motives might be. The silence in the room was heavy, and Elena couldn't shake o
Elena walked tentatively along the corridors. It was afternoon, and Mark was downstairs in the mini bar. She had timed what she was about to do to coincide with the time when the guards were about to rotate their shift. She looked along the corridor and found no one standing guard. She hurried over to Mark's door and tried the handle, praying silently that it would be open. Luckily for her, it opened. She walked into the room and shut the door behind her. She hurried over to Mark's closet and hid the briefcase behind a shoe rack. She quickly and quietly stepped out. Once she got to the door, she immediately remembered something and turned back to the set of drawers in a corner of the room. She searched until she pulled out Mark's checkbook. She looked behind her to make sure she was still alone. She opened it and found the imprint of Mark's signature from a previous transaction. She imitated the style and it was a perfect replica. She smiled to herself in satisfaction. She had be
Mark let Saint drive him home, still reeling from his meeting with the funeral home to make preparations for his father's funeral. He couldn't believe he was talking about his father in the past tense, again. When he thought his father had died in the plane crash, he was devastated. But then his father came back, revealing he was never on the flight. Losing him for real now, to a stupid mistake, made him feel very angry. He wished he could find the lemonade seller who put coconut juice in his father's drink. A thought flashed through his mind, and he wondered if the act was perpetrated by an enemy. But then he remembered his father had gone to the spa; it was hardly possible. Yet, his enemies had shown just how dexterous they could be. As they approached his house, Mark's mind was drawn to the vehicle parked in front. He knew he was bound to receive visitors since his father had just died, and he had already met with the mayor at a restaurant. But he was not in the mood for any mor
David sat in his office, pouring over financial statements on behalf of Mark. Despite the unexpected turn of events with Mark's arrest, the business still needed to run, and David was determined to keep things on track. David's thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He picked it up, and a voice on the other end introduced herself as Cristine Dylan, Mark's account manager. "Hello, good morning, Mr. David. Sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm aware of who you are, Cristine. Is there a problem?" David asked, his tone direct. "I fear so, sir. There's just been a cash-out of one million dollars from Mr. Darius' personal account. I was wondering if you're aware?" Cristine explained. David's expression turned serious, his brows furrowed in thought. "No, Cristine. Can you send me an email with the account statement?" He requested. "Alright, sir," Cristine replied before ending the call. David quickly got on the phone with Mark, a privilege afforded to him as a wea
Mark sat in his cell, savoring his decent breakfast of bread, fried eggs, and baked beans, accompanied by a little bottle of orange juice. The knock on his door broke the silence, and Agent Jones stepped into the room. "Good morning, Mr. Darius. You can leave as long as you're done with your breakfast, sir. We've caught the real perpetrators of the crime. Miss Elena Woods, your ex-wife. And we believe she had help. But she won't speak to us." Mark nodded thoughtfully, wiping his lips clean with a napkin and taking a sip of his juice. "I see," he said, his mind already racing with questions. He looked at Agent Jones and asked, "Can I have my things now?" Agent Jones nodded and pointed to the door. "Of course, sir. If you could just come along with me, please. My sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding and any accompanying inconveniences. It wasn't the least intentional." Mark replied, "It's all good, Agent. Just get me my things." They walked into an office where Agent Jones h
Bennet steered his car into the parking area of a coffee shop in town, climbed out, and admired himself in the car mirror. He was looking good, and all the money he had been making was now visible on him. He smiled, and walked into the coffee shop to find Baummerman at a table, too busy with a tablet to notice his arrival. Bennet took a seat, and when the attendant came over, he ordered a cappuccino. Baummerman looked up and greeted him, but Bennet ignored it and asked, "How's business, Bill?" Baummerman shrugged, "Well, slow. Why have you asked us to meet?" When the cappuccino arrived, Bennet nodded and tipped the attendant profusely. Baummerman raised an eyebrow, "Well, I see it's a different story for yours, then." Bennet played it cool, "Well, I had to tip the kid anyway." But Baummerman pressed, "And you call two hundred dollars a tip?" Bennet shrugged again, took a sip of his drink, and dropped a bombshell: "The investment I had asked for sometime last month, I don't think i
Brown lay in his dimly lit cell, trying to sleep, his mind raced, trying to recall the faces of the people Connor claimed he had hurt. But they were blurry, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being unfairly targeted. Suddenly, the cell felt like an oven, and Brown undid a couple of buttons on his prison overall. The air was thick and choking, and he started coughing. The murmurs from the prison hallway grew louder, and he noticed a thick plume of smoke pouring in through the tiny air vent. The smoke filled the corridor, and the agitated banging from the other cells told him he wasn't imagining things. The prison alarm began ringing wildly, mixing with the fire alarm, and an automated voice came from the speakers. "All prisoners assemble at the muster point until the fire is put out." A prisoner screamed, "Well, let us out of here then!" The automated locks disengaged, and the cell doors clicked open – except Brown's door. He watched in alarm as prisoners broke out of th
EPILOGUE : A YEAR LATER The courtroom was filled with apprehension and tension. From a mile away, one could observe and note the seriousness of the faces, how enraptured they seemed to be. The silence in the courtroom could be broken by just a pin drop, and everyone was rapt with attention, staring at the judge, the jury, the hideous criminal with beautiful eyes, slender waist, a beautiful body and the prettiest of faces, but with a heart darker than the devil's. The entire city was out for her, and everybody in the room was dying for justice to take its course. The entire courtroom was filled to the brim, and even from the outside, people were peering through the windows. It was the largest court in the city, but the turn up had been so massive that people had to look from the windows. That was the kind of reception that Karen Shapiro had garnered. A lot of people had heard her story, the murders she had committed, and how she had controlled the underworld of crime. She wa
In the days that followed, Jenett Darius felt as if she was living in a dream. She could barely respond to questions that were thrown her way, and she knew it made the chief of police genuinely worried because of the agreement she had made to testify against Karen Shapiro in the court. How was she going to be able to do that when her purpose of living was no more? When her son was no more, the child that she had birthed hadn't even lived to experience the remorse that she was feeling? The removal of the guilt that had filled her chest by turning herself in? On a sunny Monday morning, she was shocked to find the chief of police opening the door to her cell. She jolted awake, and so did Margaret Woods. She had barely spoken to Margaret since she had heard the news of her son's death, and all she had wanted was for death to snatch her too. But no matter how much she wished for it, it never seemed to come. Death knew that it wasn't time for her to go, and it was playing its part by r
But Karen Shapiro was in no state to do what she had conjured in her mind. She was brought down by a simple Roundhouse kick, and her head was pinned to the floor as the cold metal of the handcuffs clamped on her wrists. Karen Shapiro was bundled back into her room, just like the common criminal she was. ********* When Mark Darius came to consciousness, he instantly found out that his side was hurting and that he was in a hospital. The dream he had been having was the same one that had tormented him during the previous nights, Karen Shapiro pursuing him endlessly with a knife, her screams making him terrified and making him perspire profusely. By the time he managed to sit up in the white, comfortable bed he was in, he was covered in a sheen of sweat. He also acknowledged immediately that the bed he was lying in wasn't his, and that his room didn't have a speck of blue in it. He had always been a green and orange color person from the start. And those were the colors that flound
When Karen Shapiro came to consciousness, the first thing she recognized was the continuous beeping of the heart monitor machine next to her and the needle that was in her skin. Her head felt as if it had been pounded upon severally and her eyes wanted to close of their own accord. Where was she? What had happened to her? For all she knew about her being in a blue and white room that stank of drugs and antiseptic, she knew within her that she was missing something. Something was wrong. She wasn't supposed to be in the room that she was, and she knew it. But she couldn't place it. At that same moment, the door opened, revealing a nurse in a white uniform that bore kind, brown eyes. Her hair was covered with a nursing cap, and when she smiled, it was cheerful and broad, seeming to light up the whole room. It made Karen Shapiro smile slightly even though she clearly didn't want to, even though her head felt as if a thousand nails had been drilled into it. The nurse proceeded
Swallowing, he spoke those dreaded words that Jenett Darius heard in her nightmares for days, those words that seemed to stick in her mind, that had left a firm imprint in her soul. “I'm afraid your son has been found dead amongst the bodies of the dead in the aftermath of the Splendid bar shooting. He was alive when the ambulance left the bar, but he was confirmed dead on arrival at the hospital. He died from several gunshot wounds.” He paused, and Jenett Darius could only hear the blood pounding in her ears and the hammering of her chest. She couldn't believe it, she was hoping it wasn't true. But it was reality, the cuffs on her hands were real and the chief was still standing in front of her. “I'm sorry that I'm the one that has come to you bearing this sad news, Miss Jenett. I wish I could take it back, but it has already happened.” When she didn't speak, he ventured further, touching her lightly on the shoulder. It was clear that he wanted her to say something, to at least
As soon as he struck Karen Shapiro on the head with the heavy box, he knew that he had only a few seconds before he would totally black out. And that was why without wasting a precious second, Mark Darius made his way to the phone in Derek Campton's hand. Without skipping a beat, he dialed the popular emergency line, his hands trembling. The amount of blood he had lost was going to determine if he got to live or not, and Mark Darius knew that he had lost quite a lot of blood. “911, what's your emergency?” Smiling, Mark Darius was slowly embracing the darkness that was enveloping him. He was fighting to stay alive, he was fighting death, the darkness, and even though it looked bleak, he was sure that he was going to win. He was going to say his location before the darkness enveloped him completely. It had been quite a long day, and Mark Darius wanted nothing more than to lay down and rest. He had been fighting a battle which he didn't know how it was going to turn out, and t
“I can drive you to the station. I believe one of the staff can help to look after Atticus. He's eating, and as far as food is involved, he's good to go.” Sergei stared at her, slightly worried. He was just a little bit different. Even in the urgency of the moment, he was rethinking things, making sure that he wasn't leaving out any detail. He was very observant, and she could see why Mark had maintained his service throughout the years. “Are you sure? You should rest, take a shower. I assure you that Mark will be alright. He knows how to take care of himself, fight his battles if you know what I mean.” She nodded, knowing that she would do anything to know that Mark was safe and sound. He had fought for Atticus, and it was up to her to do the same for him. She would gladly do it without blinking or hesitation. “I'm certain. I need to be sure that Mark is safe and that Karen hasn't killed him yet.” Sergei nodded, finally acknowledging her pleas to follow him. He had carefully c
She didn't know why, she couldn't fathom the reason. It was probably what she had deserved, but the fact that she had been so close to getting away hurt her everyday of her life. After she closed the box successfully, she turned around to see a smiling Mark Darius, the smaller of her boxes with its edges that were made of metal in his hands. And before she could move or raise her hands in defense, the box had been slammed on her head, sending her into a darkness she had never encountered throughout her life. ********** Farida Atticus stared at her son, then smiled. Out of everything that had happened to her in the past few weeks, he seemed to be the only good thing that had emerged from it all. For the fact that he had managed to come out of the devil's lair that was Karen Shapiro's home unshattered and unharmed, there was every reason for her to be happy. Yes, her life had been a mess because of love, but there was one thing Farida found herself acknowledging. She st
But it was clear that Mark Darius was having none of it. His mind was made up, and he stared at her, his gun very much active in his hand. He was going to use it, no matter what she said. “I can give you the contract right now.” Mark Darius smiled instead, as if he knew of her plans to bolt and do something unpredictable like she had done a few minutes ago. He looked purely ready for her, her antics and whatever she was going to try next. “You should've thought about that before trying to shoot me, Karen Shapiro.” And with those words, he fired. It was a single shot, and the bullet pierced her upper arm in a jolt that sent her to the floor, holding her now bleeding hand. At that moment, Mark Darius let out a cry. He had fallen to the floor, and the gun was out of his hand. Staring at him in pain, Karen Shapiro could see that he was in pain. He was clutching his side, his knuckles completely white. Despite her bleeding arm, the sight of Mark Darius in pain seemed to give her st