CHAPTER 100: THE HEADMISTRESS

–Deanne–

I glanced at Livana, who carefully placed her fork down.

"I got it," Caine said, already standing. I followed him a few seconds later, my heels silent on the floor.

He was checking the monitor. A figure in a hood had rung the bell, deliberately keeping her face out of the camera’s view.

"How may I help you?" Caine asked as I stood beside him, eyes narrowing at the screen.

"I’m looking for Mr. Gray," she said.

"You’re at the wrong house, Miss," Caine replied coolly.

"I can’t be mistaken," she insisted, glancing around nervously. She was wearing a black face mask and sunglasses. Her hands trembled slightly—clearly shaken.

"Is this the Apollo Penthouse?" she asked.

"This is Athena Penthouse," Caine said, flat and unmoved.

She checked again, mumbled an apology, and turned away.

Caine switched off the microphone and looked at me.

"That was weird." I mumbled.

"She looks familiar... I think she’s a celebrity."

"Oh really?" I asked as he shrugged.

And then a loud gunshot shattered the air.

I shoved Caine aside and rushed to the camera controls. We had multiple angles outside the door. I scanned fast—

She was down.

"Call 911," I snapped.

Caine bolted to the phone and started dialing.

I watched the screen as a man in a black helmet and matching suit casually dragged her body out of frame.

He paused.

He noticed the camera.

Good. Let the authorities get a full view.

"Damn it!" Caine cursed. "Lines are busy—still waiting."

"He’s heading here," I muttered.

The bastard shot the visible camera, but the hidden ones were untouched.

Then the doorbell rang.

A second later—BANG BANG BANG. Fists on the door.

From what I knew, this floor wasn’t fully occupied. The Athena Penthouse was rarely used. The others? Still up for sale. He must’ve thought the girl was alone.

"I think it’s our fault we didn’t let her in?" Caine muttered.

"Don’t be stupid. We don’t open doors for strangers."

I turned.

Livana stood behind me.

"What’s going on?" she asked.

"A man with a gun just killed that girl. Now he’s trying to get in."

"Hmm. Let him in," she said casually.

"Are you crazy?" I hissed.

Caine dashed to the living room, returned seconds later with a gun.

Livana turned and walked to the far side of the penthouse.

"Go. Let him in," she ordered, her voice like ice. "Grandpa, stay in the dining room room."

"Okay," Grandpa replied, utterly unfazed.

I sighed. Damon tossed a gun at me. I caught it with ease and checked the chamber.

I glanced at the wall monitor—

"Oh, shit. There’s more."

Five more men. Same black suits. Same black robber’s masks.

"Get rid of them, babe. Don’t kill them," Livana told Damon sweetly.

Then they kissed—passionately. Right in front of us.

I cringed. Caine looked like he might gag.

He moved into position and opened the door.

I aimed and shot—

One in the foot. One in the wrist. Another got both legs.

I grabbed a second gun hidden inside a decorative vase and took out the next two—shots to the wrists and legs, clean and fast. I fired both guns simultaneously, arms at opposing angles, my aim unwavering. Damon was just as precise—deliberate in his restraint, aiming only to disable. Still, it was brutal. All five went down hard.

Caine clapped his hands. "Wow."

"I don’t want to clean up a mess inside," I muttered.

Caine kicked the weapons away from the attackers and pulled the helmet off the man who shot the girl.

"Oh, shit. These guys are working for Madrigal," Caine muttered, laughing bitterly as he spotted the tattoo inked on the guy’s neck.

All five were still breathing, still conscious—cursing in rapid Spanish, eyes blazing with defiance. One of them tried spitting at Caine. Another aimed for Damon.

Without hesitation, Damon turned and shot the second guy—right in the other leg.

"Stay the hell down," he growled, his voice ice-cold.

The guy screamed and writhed, but he stopped moving.

No one else dared try again.

They looked shocked to see us—didn’t expect resistance.

"Madrigal, you say?" Livana echoed, as Damon checked each man, stepping hard on their wounded calves.

"What about the girl?" Caine asked.

I rolled my eyes.

Just in time, the undercover agents and building security arrived, flashing badges.

"Liva, get inside, baby. I don’t want you to get hurt," Damon said, shooing her like she was fragile glass.

"Hmm."

They cuffed the intruders and checked the dead girl sprawled in the hallway—already soaked in blood from the bullet lodged in her brain.

"I assume you don’t need our statement?" Damon grinned at the agents. "But we’ll provide the footage."

"Sure thing, Mr. Blackwell," one of them replied. They already knew who he was—no introductions needed.

He turned back toward the door.

"Baby, I told you—don’t stay near the door. Gunpowder’s a nasty scent," he fussed. Overdramatic, as always.

He walked to Livana and gently pushed her away from the scene. Grandpa appeared, calm as ever, and guided her further back.

The agents gave him a respectful salute. Of course they did—he was a veteran.

Then Damon tripped on one of the downed men’s legs.

I hissed.

He’s not usually clumsy—unless Livana’s near. Around her, he’s a lovesick puppy. Pathetic.

"For god’s sake, you get inside too," I snapped at him.

He paused. Then, obediently, followed after her.

After what felt like two damn hours, forensics finally arrived. Then came the detectives—dragging their boots and questions like they had all the time in the world. They retrieved the footage, and I handed them the raw recordings. No way in hell I was letting them connect to our Wi-Fi.

Since I’m the one managing this penthouse—not that anyone ever remembers—I set up a table for them outside. Neat. Professional. Away from my sanity.

They eventually spoke to the guy from the Apollo Penthouse who’d gotten himself injured. I didn’t catch the full story, and frankly, I was too tired to care. But from the whispers? That girl—they said she was sponsored by Alejandro Madrigal. Maybe one of his disposable mistresses.

We already knew they were Madrigal’s people. What irritated me the most? The sheer stupidity. They didn’t even check who lived here. Really? You barge into a luxury building and straight onto the floor owned by Livana—and you don’t anticipate state-of-the-art security, high-resolution cameras, or, God forbid, me?

These bastards didn’t even flinch. Didn’t care we were here. I’m guessing no one gave them a proper orientation on how the underworld works. Because if they had, they’d know better than to mess with the empire Livana is currently ruling from the shadows.

Or maybe they’ve never heard the rumors about the sadistic Blackwells—

But they’re about to learn. The hard way.

Idiots.

Back in the kitchen, I stared down at my cold plate. I was still hungry. Still.

Caine leaned over. "You gonna finish that?"

I didn’t answer. Just cringed.

He took it anyway. Finished off the steak like a damn stray dog.

"Don’t waste food," he muttered with his mouth full.

"I was still hungry," I said, glaring at him with every ounce of my soul-drained face.

He had the nerve to pout. "I’ll treat you to fast food." He winked.

I sighed. I didn’t even have the strength to insult him.

Damon, for once, did something useful—he cleared the plates.

"Put all the excess in plastic, please," I told him.

To my surprise, he obeyed. Even figured out how the dishwasher worked—finally.

I crossed my arms, sharp heels tapping the tile like a metronome of restrained rage.

"Caine. Table."

"Yeah, yeah." He yawned.

I kept tapping. Watching like a hawk.

"What else?" Damon asked, glancing around like he was lost. I swear, he’s blind. The sink was still a mess—half-clean at best.

"Wipe the sink. Scrub it. Sanitize the whole damn counter. And don’t mess it up," I snapped, my voice cutting through the air.

Then I spun on my heel and marched out, heels clicking with every ounce of suppressed fury.

By the main door, Livana stood calmly next to Grandpa while the penthouse staff scrubbed up the trail of blood those bastards left behind.

I stared at the ruined carpet. Pressed my lips together. Counted to three.

"Goddamnit!" I hissed, yanking on a glove with more force than necessary.

"Caine, get me a garbage bag!" I barked.

He showed up in seconds, bag open. I shoved the blood-soaked carpet inside without a second glance.

"Are you mad?" Livana asked behind me.

"No. I’m annoyed," I growled. My jaw hurt from how long I’d been clenching it.

"Dear, take a break," Grandpa offered gently. "We’ll get fast food. Want to come?"

"No," I muttered, voice flat and done. "I need a break—from all of you."

I peeled the gloves off like they were skin and tossed them into the bag Caine still held. He flinched.

With Damon and Caine constantly hovering, Livana barking out her impulsive, ridiculous commands, and chaos every damn hour—I felt like a mother of three overgrown toddlers. A deadly babysitter with a migraine and a short fuse.

One of these days, they’re going to push me too far.

And I will not be the one apologizing.