REBORN My Second Life I Became The Villianess (Nyxara) novel Chapter 84

"We finish dealing with Silva," Dad said, looking up with a sharp grin. "And then we start preparing for the big gala this weekend. Word about tonight's little street party is already going to start leaking through the underground grapevine by sunrise. Everyone in the city is going to want to know who you are, and it's time to make it official."

I nodded, pushing off the doorframe. "Good. Let's get it over with."

I walked down the hallway to the guest quarters the Cruz family kept for visiting members. The room was simple, clean, and quiet, totally different from the historic, gold-trimmed opulence of the Valteri estate up north. I dropped my bag on the floor, kicked off my shoes, and fell face-first onto the firm mattress, letting out a long breath.

My phone Vibrated on the bedside table. I rolled over and picked it up. A new text from Dario.

Dario: Still awake? Miss you. Wish I was down there.

I tapped out a fast reply, smiling slightly to myself in the dark room.

NYXARA: Miss you too. Go to sleep, dramatic.

I tossed the phone back onto the table, staring up at the ceiling as the quiet of the compound settled around me.

The next morning, the gray light of dawn was just starting to bleed over the top of the compound walls. I was already awake, dressed in dark denim and a black sweater, sitting on the edge of the bed as I laced up my boots. A couple of minutes later, a heavy knock echoed against my door, and Uncle Pascal poked his head into the room.

"Rise and shine, kid," Uncle Pascal said, his tone brisk and all business. "Your old man is already downstairs. We're rolling out in ten minutes."

"I'm ready," I said, standing up and grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair.

We walked down to the main courtyard where a pair of heavy armored trucks were idling alongside the black SUVs. Dad was standing near the front vehicle, talking quietly with the head of his security detail while looking over a folded set of papers. When he saw me walking across the gravel, he folded up the papers and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

"Slept okay?" he asked, his eyes scanning my face as I walked up.

"Like a rock," I said, zipping up my jacket. "So, we're taking down Silva today?"

"We're sending a message," Dad corrected, a cold, hard edge cutting into his voice. "When a low-level operation thinks they can ambush a Cruz transport because they assume we're distracted, you don't just push them back. You rip their roots up so nobody else gets any bright ideas." he said.

We climbed into the back of the lead truck this time. The interior smelled of clean steel, heavy canvas, and gun oil. As the convoy rolled out through the security gates and headed away from the harbor toward the eastern industrial sector, I looked out the window at the waking city. The streets were mostly empty, except for a few delivery trucks and workers heading to early shifts.

It took about twenty minutes to reach what seemed like the Silva crew's primary distribution warehouse. It was a massive, weathered corrugated-metal building squatting right next to an active rail line, surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with rusted razor wire. A couple of beat-up delivery vans and an old pickup truck were parked near the loading bay doors. Our convoy didn't bother trying to be subtle. The lead truck slammed right through the chain-link gates, tearing the metal posts out of the ground with a loud screech of twisting wire and snapping pipes.

Inside the warehouse yard, pure chaos broke out instantly. Shouts rang out from inside the building as half a dozen Silva’s men scrambled toward their vehicles, realizing too late that they had completely miscalculated who they were dealing with.

The truck doors flew open before we even came to a complete stop. Uncle Pascal and the security detail poured out, moving with swift, practiced precision to secure the perimeter and cut off any exits.

Dad stepped out onto the gravel, with his hands tucked casually into his pockets, while I walked right beside him.

The heavy metal rolling door of the warehouse was yanked open from the inside, and a short, heavy-set guy with greasy hair and a cheap leather jacket stumbled out, holding a Glock loosely in his right hand. His face went pale when he saw Dad standing there in the middle of the yard.

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