After Viktor's death, the brothers expected Daniel's empire to shake, maybe even collapse.
It didn't.
Instead, it adjusted.
Every shipment rerouted before they could trace it.
Every trusted contact re-verified — loyalty tested with blood and fear.
The intel they once trusted turned to smoke — every name, every address, every number, worthless within hours.
This wasn't the reaction of a normal Don.
This was the reaction of a king who already knew the war was coming.
Rayyan paced in frustration, the cigarette burning between his fingers forgotten.
"We took his hand, but the bastard's still holding the sword."
Malik slammed his fist against the table, rattling empty glasses.
"Let me cut off the whole damn arm."
Ameer sat quietly, flipping through scattered files.
"If our own sources are feeding us lies, who the hell can we trust?"
And Faisal... Faisal said nothing.
He sat at the head of the table, fingers pressed into the map, his mind somewhere darker than the room they sat in.
This was no longer just revenge.
This was personal.
The next target was supposed to be Carlos Medina, a smooth-talking money launderer who managed to slip millions through Daniel's empire without leaving a trace.
The brothers believed Carlos held the keys to Daniel's offshore accounts — the heart of his fortune.
They planned a surgical strike — no noise, no bodies left behind.
They captured Carlos alive, dragged him into a cold, windowless room, and let Malik have his way.
They shattered his fingers, crushed his knee, even drowned him halfway to death — anything to unlock Daniel's hidden fortune.
But Carlos gave them exactly what Daniel wanted.
A fake access code.
The moment Ameer's fingers entered the code into their secure laptop, it was over.
Red text flooded the screen — Access Denied.
The next screen was a message:
"I see you."
The code wasn't just fake — it was a trap. A digital landmine.
Within seconds, Daniel's men had full access to Faisal's shell companies, bank movements, offshore accounts, and even the locations of their safehouses across three countries.
The hunter had become the hunted.
Daniel didn't send his squads.
He sent warnings carved into flesh.
Malik's street contacts vanished overnight — families gone, homes burned, names erased.
One of Ameer's trusted informants was found nailed to a wall — a paper pinned to his chest with a knife.
The paper read:
"Too close to the sun."
Even Rayyan's military sources, once fearless, started pulling away — whispering that they'd stepped into something too big, too dark, too unstoppable.
Faisal felt it — the weight pressing down on his chest.
This wasn't a war with a man.
This was a war with the entire system.
It was in that silence — the silence after defeat — that Faisal evolved.
The truth settled into his bones like ice.
You don't kill a king by cutting his men. You kill a king by making his crown worthless.
Daniel didn't fear bullets.
He feared losing control. Losing loyalty. Losing the legend that made him untouchable.
Faisal gathered his brothers, his voice calm in the eye of the storm.
"We're done playing soldiers."
They would turn Daniel's own power against him.
Fake evidence would spread — whispers that Daniel was working with law enforcement, feeding them just enough to keep himself safe.
They would plant rumors that Daniel had been cutting his own captains out of the biggest deals — hoarding power and wealth.
They would approach rival Dons, feeding them the same poisoned whispers — planting the idea that Daniel was weak, that the throne was ready to fall.
They wouldn't fight Daniel's army. They would make his army tear itself apart.
Rayyan leaned against the window, watching the city lights flicker.
He didn't recognize Faisal anymore — not fully.
The boy who once cried over his parents' graves was now spinning lies like silk, moving pieces across a blood-soaked chessboard without blinking.
Cold. Calculated. Merciless.
Malik, on the other hand, was thriving.
Every drop of blood made him hungrier for more.
His fists ached for bone.
Ameer — Ameer barely spoke anymore.
Paranoia crept into his bones, his eyes always scanning the room, his mind poisoned by one question:
What if Daniel already knows?
The brothers were winning.
But they were losing themselves.
In a penthouse high above the city, Daniel sat in the soft glow of gold and glass, swirling a glass of wine between his fingers.
Before him, on a polished table, lay a stack of photos.
Photos of Faisal's companies.
Photos of Malik at the docks.
Photos of Ameer meeting with informants.
Photos of Rayyan, always watching.
Viktor's mutilated body was just one page in a longer story.
Daniel smiled faintly — not fear, not anger.
Amusement.
"The mice," he whispered, "think they're lions."
He turned to his shadow — the faceless man who had stood beside him for over two decades.
"Let them fight. Let them win a few battles. Let them think they're kings."
He raised his glass.
"When they're ready to sit at my table, I'll decide if they eat… or if they become the meal."
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End of Chapter 33