Heading back toward the towering glass structure of the Fortis Group building, Max had allowed himself a rare, fleeting thought: perhaps he could rest. He envisioned a couple of days of silence before he had to begin the grueling task of investigating Marsha Stern.
He knew that identifying the person actively trying to end his life was a priority that needed to be settled before he could fully commit to his long-term goals. With Dud already out in the city, intentionally stirring up the stagnant waters of the underworld to see what floated to the surface, Max felt he was making progress. He had handled everything thrown his way thus far, but he was self-aware enough to know that facing too many fronts at once was a recipe for another premature burial.
So, it made him wonder with a growing sense of suspicion: why would he have visitors from outside Notting Hill? Everything he had built, every bridge he had burned, and every enemy he had made was contained within these city limits. He had no established relations with anyone beyond the borders.
’The mercenaries, maybe? They wanted Aron to rejoin their ranks, but if it were them, Aron would have recognized the names,’ Max mused as the city lights blurred past the car window. ’The old Max Stern only had a handful of people in his orbit, and I’ve accounted for most of them. This means someone is visiting the Billion Bloodline group, rather than the Stern heir.’
Regardless of the intent, Max steeled himself. He couldn’t afford a single slip-up; a lack of vigilance had already cost him his life once, and he didn’t intend to make a habit of dying.
When the car finally pulled up to the curb, Max made a sudden decision. He stepped out of the vehicle at the front of the building rather than heading for the security of the underground car park. Something had immediately seized his attention on the street.
Motorbikes.
At least thirty of them were parked in a jagged, aggressive line directly in front of the Fortis building. They were a chaotic mix of shapes and sizes—heavy cruisers, lean sportbikes, and rugged dirt bikes—many of them adorned with spray-painted slogans and scuffed chrome that spoke of long miles and hard lives.
"Are these from our ’visitors’?" Max sighed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He had half-hoped for a surprise business venture or an unexpected investment proposal. Now, there was no doubt: he was dealing with a gang.
"What the...?" Max muttered as he pushed through the heavy glass doors into the reception area. The lobby felt strangely hollow. "Where is Sheri? Isn’t she supposed to be at the desk?"
"I was told the guests were escorted directly to the training hall," Aron claimed, his hand instinctively hovering near his concealed holster. "It doesn’t appear as if they’ve launched an attack on the facility yet, but I did receive a direct warning from Darno."
"A warning? What did he say?" Max asked, his eyes narrowing.
"He said: ’These people are crazy.’"
When Max heard Aron repeat those words, he was half-tempted to turn around, find a quiet hotel, and deal with the madness in the morning. But Max had never been the type to run from a brewing storm. He signaled to Aron, and they stepped into the elevator, ascending toward the main hall.
"When these doors open," Max whispered as the floor numbers climbed, "be ready for anything."
A sharp ding signaled their arrival. As they stepped out into the hallway leading to the training hall, the air was already thick with the sound of heated arguing and a constant, rhythmic whacking noise that echoed off the concrete walls.
When they finally stepped into the vast training space, the sight that met them was utterly surreal. Standing in the center of the hall were thirty or so women, each of them wielding a wooden sword—a bokken . They were rough around the edges, their faces marked by scars and bandages that weren’t there for fashion. Some wore large, flowing white drapes over tactical gear, giving them a ghostly, regal appearance.
They were shouting at the top of their lungs, seemingly in the middle of a fierce internal argument that had spilled over onto the Bloodline members.
"You sick dogs! Do you really think you can just hit on us like that because you think we’re helpless?" one of the women screamed. She lunged forward, swinging her wooden sword in a vicious arc.
The Bloodline member she was targeting was spared a broken skull only because Wolf reached out, grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck and yanking him backward just as the wood whistled through the space where his head had been.
"I’ll admit these fools are idiots, but I don’t believe they crossed a line," Wolf said, his voice calm but authoritative as he held his man back. "You’re going too far, especially considering you’re guests in this house."
The conflict had apparently ignited during the escort. Some of the Bloodline guards had made the fatal mistake of mocking the wooden swords the women carried, laughing and smirking at what they perceived as "toys." Others had tried a different approach, planting a clumsy compliment or two in hopes of scoring a date. Neither approach had been received well, leading to an almost full-scale riot.
"What? You think we’re just going to say yes because you asked nicely?" another woman shouted, swinging her bokken toward Darno. "I don’t go out with guys who are weaker than me!"
Darno didn’t dodge. He simply lifted his massive, corded arm to intercept the strike. The wooden sword crashed against his forearm with a bone-jarring thud and snapped clean in half. Darno didn’t even flinch, a feat that caused several of the women to pause in surprise.
"Oh, now that’s interesting," a woman named Sarah said with a sharp, dangerous smile. "I guess you guys aren’t the ’new hot group’ for no reason."
Before Darno could respond, another woman—whose speed was noticeably higher than the others—lunged at him. Again, rather than moving, Darno lifted his arm to block. But this time, the sword didn’t snap. At the very last microsecond, the woman shifted her momentum. Instead of a swing, she executed a lightning-fast thrust toward his midsection.
The tip of the wooden sword found a gap in Darno’s guard, hitting his stomach with a focused point of pressure. She twisted the sword as it made contact, and this time, Darno’s face contorted in a flash of genuine pain.
"You should have dodged that one," she said, her eyes flashing with a competitive fire.
"That... actually hurt," Darno grunted, rubbing the spot on his abdomen. He looked at her with a new sense of wary respect. "But I never dodge."