BOOM!!!
The explosion rocked the entire East District. Louis's men had clashed with Jensen's crew three times in one night, each assault ferocious. In the end, it was Rex who led the charge to blow up the East District's chemical plant, finally quelling their frenzied counterattack.
One thing was undeniable: the moment Louis took power, the entirety of Burman's red-light district was carved out for a mercenary killer under his command—Andrew.
Sherry's position was precarious. Her own people were wavering; the power structure she'd built over years teetered on the brink.
Fortunately, Louis was merely the youngest son adopted by the Big Boss in France. With the Big Boss gone, none of his three sons were content, and Louis couldn't yet command true loyalty.
After that heart-stopping night, all of Burman simmered with tension. People waited, eager to see Sherry or Andrew stumble.
They didn't care who won or lost. As long as there was spectacle, Burman remained a gloriously depraved playground.
They craved blood.
…
Meanwhile, Sherry, the subject of all the whispers, leaned against the doorframe of the infirmary, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she scrolled through her phone.
The screen displayed Andrew's profile.
Ex-mercenary. Exceptional physical prowess and combat experience. Judging by the reported physical data and military commendations, he was a formidable killer.
Sherry scrolled down, then paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
Strangely, there wasn't a single photograph of him.
She guessed he was probably a tall man with a buzz cut—standard mercenary fare.
Just then, an Irish woman approached. Sherry looked up as an envelope was thrust under her nose.
Sherry pocketed her phone and raised an eyebrow, plucking the letter from the woman's hand.
"What's this, darling?"
"The Little Boss says you need to complete the Burman handover. Promptly."
Impatience and a hint of disdain colored the Irish woman's words.
Sherry's pale green eyes locked onto the woman's heavily shadowed, narrow eyes. The woman stiffened, opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Her courage only stretched so far.
Sherry's lips curved. She pushed off the doorframe with lazy grace. "Right. Got it."
The Irish woman looked like she wanted to spit but, under the weight of Sherry's gaze, merely clenched her jaw and stalked away.
Sherry narrowed her eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she unfolded the letter, scanning its contents rapidly.
The gist: Sherry needed to hand over the operational details of Burman's red-light district to Andrew. "Promptly" remained conveniently undefined.
Sherry touched the tip of her cigarette to the paper. Flame licked hungrily at the edges, consuming it to ash. When only a tiny, burning corner remained, she closed her fist, snuffing the flame in her palm.
"…"
It took Sherry just three days to compile all the current personnel data for Burman. For her, it was hardly difficult.
From the moment she'd risen to power, she'd prepared for the Big Boss's downfall.
Estimating Andrew's arrival in Burman's red-light district, she arranged for him to settle in for a few days. She saved the records, sent word through one of Andrew's lieutenants, and agreed to meet at the bar.
But when Sherry arrived for the meeting, Andrew was a no-show.
She requested meetings three times. Three times, she was stood up.
News spread fast. Whispers circulated among Burman's underlings: the West District was losing its grip. Some even openly defected to Louis.
Meanwhile, Sherry was comfortably sipping red wine in her London townhouse, barely giving Burman a second thought.
She'd never intended to intervene. The power struggle between the Big Boss and Louis intrigued her.
Like the denizens of Burman, Sherry watched with keen interest, waiting for the arrival of the legendary ex-mercenary—Andrew.
After the third rejection, Sherry stopped initiating the handover. She rested at the townhouse while assisting Rex and Jensen with the aftermath of the clashes. A week later, Andrew finally sent word.
His lieutenant informed Sherry the meeting would be at an upscale hotel in central London.
That evening, a car sent by Andrew's man picked Sherry up, driving straight into the hotel's courtyard.
The hotel exuded medieval grandeur. A gramophone in the lobby played Tales from the Vienna Woods. White men in suits waltzed elegantly with beautiful women.
Sherry, in stiletto heels and a wine-red gown that contrasted stunningly with her pale neck and legs, stood on a side staircase. She tilted her head, surveying the refined dance floor below with detached amusement.
She still preferred the raw, audacious chaos of Burman.
A hotel attendant gave her the room number and departed. Sherry navigated the narrow corridor, stopping at the designated door. She raised her hand to knock—then paused.
The unmistakable sounds of sex drifted through the door. A woman's breathy moans, a man's guttural groans—sounds as common as dust in the Burman bar.
A smirk touched Sherry's lips. She lowered her hand, first confirming the room number with the concierge, then settled onto a hallway bench. Stretching her long legs, she pulled out her phone and waited.
Roughly half an hour later, the noises subsided. Sherry waited patiently a while longer, estimating they'd finished showering, then stood and knocked.
The door opened. A wave of humid air and cheap perfume washed over her. A tall, dark-skinned man with a buzz cut stood in the doorway, hand braced against the frame. Several buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a muscular chest.
"Who're you?"
He eyed her suspiciously, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"I'm looking for Andrew," Sherry smiled.
"That'd be me," the man laughed arrogantly, pulling the beautiful woman from inside the room close. The woman pressed against him, throwing Sherry a challenging look.
"No, no," Sherry chuckled, holding up her phone. The screen showed the man's profile page. "Mercenary Chris. I believe I know you."
"You…!"
Chris was utterly unprepared for this. He gaped, speechless.
"My apologies, Chris," Sherry pocketed her phone, crossing her arms. Her pale green eyes held a glint of amusement. "I'm looking for your boss. Andrew."
Chris's Adam's apple bobbed. The woman in his arms, seeing his silence, instinctively retreated, her expression faltering.
"Tsk, Chris."
A lazy male voice sounded from further down the hall. The click of polished shoes approached. Sherry turned.
A tall, powerfully built figure materialized before her.
Sherry's eyebrow arched fractionally.
The man before her had dark skin and a sharp buzz cut. Short, cropped black hair on his right side bore a tattooed string of letters. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist; his solid frame cast an imposing shadow over Sherry. He wore a dress shirt, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. A black armband and a strap accentuated the perfect lines of his muscle.
Most dangerously, he possessed mesmerizing serpentine golden eyes. They narrowed slightly as thin lips curved into a dangerous smirk, gazing down at Sherry.
"Mr. Andrew. A pleasure."
Sherry didn't offer her hand, merely greeting him with a smile. Andrew's hands remained buried in his pockets; she doubted he intended a handshake.
"Mhm. Likewise."
Andrew's eyebrow lifted. He tilted his head, his gaze shifting past Sherry to Chris inside the room.
The woman had already fled back into the suite in fright. Under Andrew's stare, Chris snapped upright. "B-Boss…"
"Didn't realize my name was so popular," Andrew murmured, one hand still in his pocket. His other hand reached past Sherry, two fingers flicking the open collar of Chris's shirt.
His chest brushed close. The faint scent of tobacco drifted to Sherry.
Andrew's smile remained, but Chris instantly shed his arrogance, hastily buttoning his shirt. "Boss, I…"
Andrew silenced him with a look, then jerked his chin dismissively. Get lost. Take her.
Chris didn't dare utter another word. Grabbing the disheveled woman, he hurried out of the suite, half-dressed.
With Chris gone, Andrew turned his full attention to Sherry. He tilted his head, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively.
Sherry had been studying his face with open interest. Their eyes met abruptly.
"…"
Sherry rested her chin on one hand, a playful smile touching her lips as she mirrored his raised eyebrow.
Andrew's own eyebrow lifted, intrigued. His gaze, deliberate as an invasion, slid slowly from Sherry's eyes down to her mouth—and lingered. The look was laden with unabashed sexual appraisal.
Sherry, of course, noticed. Her eyebrow arched higher.
How unexpected.
Coincidentally, Sherry was never one to shy from such predatory stares. She leaned forward slightly, hands clasped behind her back, bringing her striking eyes level with Andrew's.
"I'm here to complete the handover, Mr. Andrew."
"Don't need that," Andrew shrugged, his gaze unwavering on her clear, yet subtly dangerous, pale eyes. "The letter came from the Young Master."
"Oh?" Sherry's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Then why summon me today?"
"You're the manager," Andrew's golden pupils contracted slightly, reflecting the perfect curve of Sherry's breasts and waistline. Yet his lips maintained a veneer of lazy, insincere charm. "Courtesy dictates I receive you."
Ah, the view from this angle is fucking perfect.
Sherry's eyes narrowed. For a fleeting moment, she sensed a predatory hunger lurking beneath that casually indifferent golden gaze, but it vanished instantly.
Sherry always trusted her instincts, her sixth sense.
Compared to the loudmouths who'd bellow about how fucking hot she was, this gentleman seemed decidedly less… forthright.
Resting a finger on her chin, Sherry arched one slender eyebrow. "Mr. Andrew, seems rather… attentive to this manager?"
"…"
Andrew's tongue pressed against a back tooth. Then he chuckled, lowering his lashes in tacit acknowledgment of her self-assessment.
Hands still in pockets, he leaned down slightly. His sharp nose bridge neared Sherry; his thin lips almost brushed her cheek.
His warm breath caressed her ear. The pleasant scent of tobacco enveloped her neck.
Wow. The physique is fucking spectacular.
Sherry's gaze dropped appreciatively to Andrew's open collar.
Andrew inhaled deeply, taking in her perfume. His low, husky voice, laced with lazy sincerity, murmured by her ear, "…Can't imagine anyone here not being attentive to you."
Sherry's eyes curved into crescents. She shrugged, feigning regret. "Mr. Andrew, I prefer my compliments… less veiled."
Andrew chuckled softly, the warm, masculine sound vibrating against her neck and ear.
When the laughter subsided, Andrew straightened. His gaze lowered to the crucifix resting against Sherry's chest, a flicker of mockery in his golden eyes. "A killer who believes in God?"
"Naturally," Sherry's lips curved. She hooked a finger under the cross, letting it swing gently. "I say a prayer before every shot."
Andrew seemed genuinely amused, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. When it passed, he stepped aside, gesturing down the hall. "Restaurant's this way."
As Andrew walked ahead, Sherry watched his back, a sly glint in her eyes. She let out a soft whistle. "Penhaligon's. How do you find it, Mr. Andrew?"
Andrew didn't turn. He merely waved a dismissive hand, his magnetic, gravelly voice drifting back. "Suits me just fine."
Sherry's smile deepened.
Of course it does. To ensnare prey, one must cater to its tastes.