Chapter 4: Samaritan but Fierce
"Leader, I think they're already around," Firearm panted as he burst in, sweat clinging to his skin.
Kay turned sharply. "Loosen the woman. Now!"
The room filled with chaos. Three of his men lunged toward the door with their weapons raised—ready to shoot—until a cold, commanding voice froze the air.
"Stop."
They obeyed instantly. "Yes, Boss."
The man who had spoken stood calm, dark eyes unreadable, hands buried in his coat pockets. Frances was being restrained by Firearm and Slaughter, while Kay, their leader, had a gun aimed directly at her head.
Kay wasn't a fool. He knew his gang from Baton Cave couldn't overpower Stafford Raymond's men. His crew carried one gun and two cutlasses. Stafford's men? Fully armed — pistols, knives, and precision in their steps.
His plan? Simple — use Frances as bait. A tactic one of his men whispered earlier. Stafford, rumor had it, never harmed women. In fact, he rarely even touched them. That, Kay hoped, could give him leverage.
Kay's laugh was low and cruel. "You thought you could walk out of the lion's den alive?" His eyes scanned Stafford's men, then Frances. "Is that your woman? Or just bait to make a cowardly escape?"
He sneered. "Well, I don't like to waste words. You know who I want. Shoot."
At that very moment, Frances caught a strong whiff of tobacco. It hit her hard, almost like a memory—or a warning. Her stomach twisted. Fear bloomed in her chest like wildfire. She remembered the vow she made to herself that morning, staring into the mirror: "Whatever happens today, I will return alive."
So this is how it ends?
She trembled, her body fighting between panic and numbness.
But then—
Kpaa. Kpaa. Kpaa.
Gunshots.
Kay and his men collapsed, each shot in the leg, groaning in agony. Frances screamed and froze. Her whole body shook violently. She stared at the blood pooling under their knees. One second she was prey, the next she was... spared?
"Please… please don't kill me," she whispered, voice broken. "Please."
Stafford's men looked at one another, uneasy. They weren't sure what to do. The boss had given a direct order to shoot. But it wasn't like him. Stafford never harmed women. Ever. Still, disobeying a direct command?
Stafford stepped forward slowly, his voice like ice.
"I thought I said shoot. What made you think she deserved mercy?"
Leo stepped up, nervous. "We're sorry, Boss."
"Take them underground. Tell Spike to keep them breathing, but only just." His tone didn't rise, but the weight of it silenced everyone.
As his men moved to obey, Frances collapsed. The fear, the pain, the restraints, the trauma — her legs gave out.
She had never in her life seen blood like this. Never heard real gunshots. She grew up in a house full of warmth, home-cooked meals, prayers before bedtime. Her parents were simple, loving people.
She wasn't made for this kind of world.
As her body hit the floor, her mind flashed back to her mother's laugh — the sound of a spoon clinking against a pot. Her father's hand on her shoulder, calling her "My light." The promise she had made before leaving the house: "I won't come home until I make something of myself."
She had no idea she was walking straight into hell.
Stafford moved toward her, something in her scent — faint jasmine and fear — caught him off guard. He usually kept his distance from women. After what happened to his mother, he never let himself feel anything for them. His heart had become steel.
But this girl… something about her fingers—how tightly they clutched her ripped sleeve—reminded him of a distant memory he had long buried.
His mother, in her final moment, clutching his arm. Begging him to run.
His stepmother watching with dead eyes. Unmoved.
He shook off the thought. Still, something told him to take her.
Without another word, he bent, picked her up gently, and carried her out of the building.
Sky, his loyal driver, widened his eyes in disbelief and opened the door.
"Where to, Boss?"
"Home. Tell everyone to gather tonight. And no one should disturb me until I reach out."
"Yes, Boss."
As Sky sped off, he kept glancing at the rearview mirror. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. His boss—Stafford Raymond—known for his cold precision and distance from women, had carried one into his car. A bruised one.
Stafford watched her as she lay unconscious beside him, his jacket wrapped around her small frame. She was fragile, but not weak. Her eyes, though shut now, had held fire even while terrified. He hated that he noticed that.
When they got home, he carried her inside himself.
Not knowing what else to do, he fetched warm water, a towel, and began gently cleaning her wounds. Her skin flinched under his touch, and for once, he felt unsure. He wasn't used to this — not tenderness, not compassion.
He pulled out his phone.
"Come to my house. Now."
He didn't wait for a reply before hanging up.
A few minutes later, his elder sister Paris walked in. She lived in the same estate—Latte Key—just five blocks away.
"Butler French, where's my brother?" she asked, breezing through the front door.
"Upstairs, ma'am. Good evening, Big Ma'am."
"Evening, French. And please, more of those French fries next time. My friend's obsessed with them." She grinned as she ascended.
French chuckled. "Always a pleasure, ma'am."
Upstairs, Stafford paced back and forth. He had managed to clean most of Frances's visible wounds and cover her with a blanket.
Paris pushed open the door. "Alright, where's that little brother of mine—"
"Don't wake her," Stafford said quietly, not looking up.
"Wake who?" she asked, brows furrowing as she stepped closer — and stopped. Her eyes landed on the young woman in bed. Bruised. Unconscious.
Paris turned to Stafford slowly. "What happened?"
"I'll explain later. I just need you to take care of her for now. She's hurt."
Paris didn't speak at first. She just observed him—his furrowed brow, the way he kept glancing back at the girl as if afraid she'd vanish. Her cold, unshakable brother—tender? Gentle?
She finally nodded. "Alright. I'll look after her. But you owe me a full explanation."
Stafford simply exhaled and walked out, but not without one last look.