Regret painted Gilbert's features as he acknowledged the harsh truth: the lure of easy money was a deceptive mirage.
Veering left, his car's hood arched gracefully as it turned. Suddenly, a parked car, merely three feet from a coffee shop, sprang to life. Its engine bellowed a challenge and launched itself at Tony's vehicle.
"Fuck!" Tony hissed through clenched teeth, swerving in a futile attempt to evade the oncoming menace. But it was too late; the two vehicles crashed with a thunderous impact.
"Oh my God, they're insane!"
"Someone call an ambulance!" The surrounding pedestrians shrieked, the horror evident in their voices.
Minutes later, sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance, and the three victims were whisked away to the hospital.
An hour passed before Tony's consciousness clawed its way back. His vision blurred, his head encased in gauze, his body likewise bandaged, he found himself in the sterile environment of a hospital ward. With a jolt of realization, he ripped out the IV and staggered to his feet.
"Sir, you mustn't move around," a nurse urged, concern lacing her tone as she tried to guide him back to bed. "We need to assess your condition further and determine the necessary treatment."
Ignoring her, Tony barked, "Where are the others?"
The nurse hesitated, her lips parting but no words escaping, daunted by the fierce glare burning in Tony's eyes.
Impatient, Tony stormed out the ward, flinging open doors in a desperate search. In one ward, a masked figure stood, his gaze fixed on Tony.
Taking a measured breath, Tony understood this was no chance encounter; the man was sent by the organization. He stepped inside, closing the door with a decisive click.
"Are you here to stop me?" Tony's voice was ice, his teeth gritted with clenched fists—a movement that reopened the wound in his arm, causing blood to seep through the gauze.
"I am," the masked man replied calmly. "If you leave, there will be consequences. You don't want a plane crash, do you?"
Anger clenched Tony's chest, but he inhaled deeply and countered with a low, threatening voice, "If anything happens to Andrea, your organization will crumble with her."
"She's safe, that's all you need to know. Don't make me end you," the masked man declared before vaulting out the window.
Tony approached the window, his jaw set firm, and peered out to see he was high above the ground, likely on the hospital's tenth floor. The sight laid bare the organization's chilling reach—no wonder Mr. Singers, despite his immense wealth, had never dared to challenge them.
Drawing a deep breath, Tony murmured to himself, "I'm still not powerful enough to take them on."
He exhaled a sigh of defeat and gazed out at the clear blue sky, his mind heavy with concern for Andrea's safety.
The private jet carrying Andrea and Lucas Anderson, along with Pete, Housekeeper Win, and the others, touched down smoothly at Sunshine City Airport. Tate was already waiting for them, flanked by several bodyguards, having been managing the Singers Group's affairs in the city.
Pete's face lit up with excitement at the sight of Tate. "Uncle Tate!" he shouted, his feet carrying him swiftly across the tarmac. Tate's own expression warmed into a broad smile, and he hoisted Pete into the air not once, but twice, eliciting joyful giggles from the boy.
"You're getting heavy, Pete!" Tate remarked, still smiling.
A pout formed on Pete's face, his joy giving way to mock indignation. "Uncle Tate, are you saying I'm fat?" he asked, his tone playfully unhappy.
Tate found himself momentarily lost for words, but Andrea quickly intervened with a chuckle, "Pete, don't tease your uncle."
With a cheeky chuckle, Pete hopped down and scampered off to chat with the familiar bodyguards.
Tate's gaze then shifted to Lucas Anderson, who he recognized as Andrea's husband, though he wasn't personally present in Vegas. He was, however, fully informed of the situation, especially after a recent call from Tony alerting him that the man beside Andrea was an imposter, not the real Valentine Anderson.
"Tate, this is my husband Valentine Anderson. Val, this is Tate, my brother," Andrea introduced them, unaware of the tension brewing.
Lucas and Tate exchanged a silent, charged look. Andrea, puzzled by the hostility, watched them closely.
"Perhaps your brother and I should have a word alone," Lucas Anderson finally broke the silence, his voice calm.
Andrea, sensing Tate's anger, and contrasting it with Lucas's smile, nodded. "If you insist," she said, assuming Tate might simply want to have a stern talk with Lucas for divorcing her six years ago.
Once Andrea had moved off, Lucas Anderson preempted Tate's brewing storm with a cool remark, "I don't know what Tony told you, but I'm neither a devil nor an angel."
"Why are you posing as your brother Valentine Anderson when you clearly are not?" Tate demanded, his hands clenched, his emotional nature barely contained.
The reason Mr. Singers don't bring him along wherever he goes.
"It's a family matter, and it doesn't concern you," Lucas Anderson replied dismissively, his posture relaxed.
Tate's face flushed with anger, his eyes afire, and he felt an overwhelming urge to strike Lucas's smug face. But before the situation could escalate, Lucas began to walk away.
Tate, unable to hold back, called out, "Andrea, he's not your husband Valentine Anderson; he's Lucas Anderson!"
Before Andrea could respond the bodyguards that Tate brought along instinctively drew their weapons, aiming them at Lucas, and the air grew thick with tension.
Pete, witnessing the standoff, turned deathly pale and cried out with his eyes brimming with tears, "Don't shoot my daddy!"
Andrea, her face a mask of fury, shouted back at Tate and the bodyguards, "Put those guns down! What are you doing, Tate? Did Tony put you up to this?"
Tate, resolute in his conviction, didn't deny it. "Tony was telling the truth. He isn't Valentine; he's his twin, Lucas."
He stubbornly pointed his gun muzzle at Lucas Anderson refusing to lower his arm.