Chapter 225: Digging One’s Own Grave

Chapter 225: Chapter 225: Digging One’s Own Grave

The dim, concrete shadows of the Galleria’s VIP parking level still hung heavy with the echoing sounds of ragged breathing and shifting footsteps.

Sam Newman stood leaning heavily against a square concrete column, his jaw clenched so tight his molars throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. On the grease-stained floor before him, Bale was sitting up slowly, clutching his cracked ribs with a grimace of pure agony, while Julian groaned, nursing a rapidly swelling jaw and rubbing his bruised wrist.

"Get up," Sam hissed, his voice raspy with raw venom. "Get the hell up!"

"Sam... man, those weren’t normal mall security guys," Bale wheezed, a trace of blood flecking his lip as he struggled to his knees. "That big guy... he moved like a professional operator. He broke my wrist lock before I even registered his hand."

"I don’t care!" Sam roared, slamming his open palm hard against the concrete pillar. The sudden impact sent a sharp shock of pain straight up his forearm, but the physical sting was nothing compared to the white-hot humiliation burning through his chest. "I don’t give a damn if they’re ex-special forces! You two were completely useless!"

Julian staggered up, leaning his heavy shoulder against the bumper of a parked sedan. "Look, Sam, we came down here to scare a couple of women for a quick grand. We didn’t sign up to fight private contractors. Whoever those women are, they’ve got real backing."

"They’re nobodies!" Sam screamed, his face flushing a dark, dangerous red. "Did you see what they were wearing?! Simple cardigans! Casual jackets! No security escort on the shopping floor! They’re just some middle-class trash using a rich friend’s credit card!"

He paced back and forth, his hands trembling violently. ’They laughed at me,’ his mind screamed in a chaotic, relentless loop. ’That arrogant little bitch talked down to me in front of the Hermès staff, and then her guard put my guys on the floor like trash! On a Sunday afternoon, when the whole upper district is out! If word of this gets out to the club... if my brothers hear about this...’

The terrifying thought of his older brothers—the sharp, ruthlessly competent heirs of Newman Enterprise Group who already treated him like an embarrassing, money-draining liability—finding out he had been publicly humiliated in a parking garage made his stomach knot with pure acid.

He yanked his phone from his blazer pocket with unsteady fingers, tapping furiously on the glass until he selected a contact labeled *Blake - Fleet Logistics*.

He pressed the phone to his ear, pacing in tight, furious circles beside the support column.

"Sam?" a gravelly voice answered after three long rings. "It’s Sunday afternoon. What do you want?"

"Blake, shut up and listen to me," Sam spat, his voice dropping into a desperate, low whisper. "I need a favor. Right now."

A short pause came over the line. "What did you do now, Sam? Your father explicitly told the legal department not to clear any more of your private club tabs—"

"It’s not a tab!" Sam snapped, his eyes wild with unrefined rage. "I need you to run a plate. A black Mercedes-Benz G 63 AMG, armored edition, VIP valet tag out of the Central Galleria. I need the primary registration name and the address tied to it immediately."

Blake let out a long, heavy sigh over the receiver. "Sam... accessing private valet logs and running high-end vehicle registrations without an authorized corporate clearance is a breach. If the executive board catches wind—"

"I don’t care about the board!" Sam barked, his knuckles turning stark white against the phone casing as he glared down the empty parking lane. "I’ll pay you double whatever your back-channel contact charges. Just get me the name behind that vehicle. Someone needs to teach those arrogant bastards who really owns this district."

There was a tense silence on the other end before Blake spoke again, his tone cautious. "Send me the tag number. But Sam... if this vehicle belongs to one of the higher-tier families, I’m dropping it instantly. You play with fire in Veyra, you get burned."

"They aren’t high-tier," Sam lied through his teeth, his jaw tight. "Just some out-of-towners who need a reality check."

He slammed the end-call button without waiting for a reply, a cold, twisted smirk slowly returning to his pale face.

’Run all you want,’ Sam thought, watching Bale and Julian limply drag themselves toward their car. ’Veyra is a small city for people with money. As soon as I have your name, little girl... you’re going to pay for every single word.’

---

Meanwhile, the sleek black Mercedes-Benz G 63 AMG armored edition glided smoothly out of the subterranean garage ramp, its twin-turbo V8 humming with a quiet, low rumble as it merged seamlessly into the light Sunday afternoon traffic of Veyra’s central avenue.

Inside the quiet, heavily reinforced cabin, the atmosphere was remarkably relaxed. Martha sat comfortably in the leather captain’s chair, her hand resting over her chest as she watched the sunlit city skyline roll past the tinted, bulletproof windows.

"My goodness," Martha murmured, taking a slow, steadying breath. "I knew Jake had arranged for extra protection, but seeing them move like that... it’s almost surreal. Where did those two even come from? I didn’t see them anywhere near us while we were shopping."

"That’s why they’re so good, Mom," Aliya said with a casual shrug, though her dark eyes still sparkled with lingering excitement. She leaned back against the plush leather seat, tapping away at her tablet. "Kovacs and Sarah are ex-special forces. Elias’s whole team operates on that level. They don’t do loud, flashy escorts—they just float in the background until some total idiot decides to test his luck."

Catharine leaned back beside Martha, offering her a gentle, reassuring smile. "Are you holding up alright, Martha? I know something like that can be unnerving."

"Oh, I’m fine, dear," Martha replied, letting out a soft, dry laugh as she shook her head. "Just realizing how much our world has changed. Two years ago, if a spoiled brat tried to corner us, Ryan would have had to step in with a tire iron. Now, former special forces operators appear out of thin air."

Catharine chuckled softly, though her expression grew thoughtfully reserved as she looked out at the passing storefronts. ’Sam Newman won’t let this go easily,’ she reflected quietly. ’Men raised on unearned entitlement and zero consequences don’t learn from being knocked down. They just get more bitter.’

"Aliya," Catharine said gently, turning her head. "Are you going to tell Jake about what happened when we get back to the penthouse?"

"Yeah, I’ll give Jake and Dad a quick rundown," Aliya replied, flashing her screen with a light grin. "Nothing crazy—just tell them some arrogant trust-fund brat tried to get pushy in the garage and the security team handled it. Kovacs will give the official debrief to Elias anyway, and Elias always reports directly to Jake. No need to turn a Sunday afternoon into a whole production."

"Just make sure your brother and father hear the general story from us first," Martha reminded her fondly. "You know how protective Jake gets."

"I know, Mom, I know," Aliya smiled, tucking her tablet safely into her leather tote bag as the armored G-Wagon made its turn back toward the financial district high-rises.

---

An hour later, in a private logistics office on the western edge of the city, Blake sat behind a multi-monitor workstation. A half-empty mug of stale coffee sat beside his keyboard as he finished entering the valet tag numbers Sam had sent him.

"Let’s see who Sam managed to piss off today," Blake muttered under his breath, clicking the execution key on his private database terminal.

The system whirred quietly, processing the encrypted license and registration match through the regional corporate ledger. A second later, the screen refreshed, displaying the high-level clearance profile attached to the armored Mercedes-Benz G 63 AMG.

[VEHICLE REGISTRATION: MERCEDES-BENZ G 63 AMG (ARMORED SPEC-7)

PRIMARY OWNER: GOLDEN INVESTMENTS HOLDINGS LTD.

AUTHORIZED DIRECT DETAIL: RIVERS FAMILY PRIVATE RESIDENTIAL & TRANSIT

SECURITY CLEARANCE LEVEL: TIER 0 - RESTRICTED ACCESS]

Blake’s breath instantly hitched in his throat. His eyes widened to the size of saucers as his gaze locked onto the bold, crimson security warning flashing across the bottom of the screen:

[WARNING: AUTHORIZED ESCORT ASSIGNED VIA BLACKWOOD PRIVATE SECURITY (EX-SPECIAL FORCES DETAIL). UNAUTHORIZED TRACKING OR SURVEILLANCE OF THIS UNIT IS MONITORED AND REPORTED TO REGIONAL DEFENSE LOGISTICS.]

The coffee mug in Blake’s hand trembled so violently that liquid spilled over the edge, staining his desk calendar. Cold sweat broke out instantly across the back of his neck.

"The... the Rivers family?" Blake whispered, his voice cracking in the empty room. "Golden Investments?!"

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The Rivers family wasn’t just wealthy—they were operating at the absolute peak of Veyra’s power structure, positioned alongside the oldest and most ruthless dynasties in the province. A family like the Newmans was a whole tier beneath them, entirely reliant on regional manufacturing contracts that could be erased with a single signature from Golden Investments’ board.

And Sam—that absolute, brainless fool—had just cornered the women of the Rivers family in a dark garage.

"That idiot is going to get us all killed," Blake gasped, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely hit the speed-dial on his desk phone.

He didn’t call Sam back. Instead, he bypassed Sam entirely and dialed the direct line of Finn Newman—Sam’s eldest brother and the executive vice president of Newman Enterprise Group.

The line rang twice before a sharp, authoritative voice answered.

"Finn Newman."

"F-Mr. Newman! Finn!" Blake stammered, his voice rising an octave in sheer panic. "Sir, you need to intervene right now! It’s about Sam!"

Finn let out a sharp, irritated breath over the receiver. "What has my brother done now, Blake? Did he wreck another sports car? I told you not to handle his personal messes—"

"No, sir! It’s not a car!" Blake interrupted, clutching the phone with both hands as cold terror gripped his chest. "Sam just had me run a plate on a black armored G 63 AMG at the Central Galleria... he got into an altercation with three women and their private ex-special forces security detail in the garage!"

"So he picked a fight in a mall," Finn said, his tone cold and unimpressed. "Send legal to pay off the shop or the garage management."

"You don’t understand, Finn!" Blake nearly yelled, leaning over the screen. "The vehicle belongs to Golden Investments! The women he tried to ambush... they’re the direct family of Jake Rivers!"

The line instantly went dead silent.

The heavy, authoritative atmosphere on Finn’s end completely evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, heavy stillness.

"What... did you just say?" Finn’s voice came back through the speaker, no longer loud, but dangerously quiet and completely stripped of color.

"It’s verified, sir!" Blake whispered, terrified. "Tier-Zero clearance! Escorted by Blackwood tactical operators! Sam tried to intimidate the Rivers family! He’s talking about going after them!"

On the top floor of the Newman Enterprise tower, Finn Newman slowly stood up from his mahogany desk, his face drained of every last drop of color as he stared out at the city skyline.

"Find out where Sam is," Finn commanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of raw terror and blinding fury. "Find him right now, bring him to my office, and do not let him touch his phone. If he breathes a single word to anyone else... our family is completely finished."

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