The Billionaire's Dangerous Obsession (Nivera) novel Chapter 219

Chapter 219

“Antonio.” Alejandro’s voice rang out. “We need to take her to the hospital. Now.”

Antonio immediately got moving as he lifted Zabelle and carried her out of the room.

“I’ll go with him,” Nivera said and Alejandro nodded. It was better she left with Antonio as he wouldn’t have to worry too much about her.

“I’ll stay back and deal with these two,” he gestured to the groaning men who were on the floor.

Nivera nodded and she quickly went after Antonio.

The door shut behind her leaving Alejandro alone with the two injured men sprawled across the motel room floor.

The silence that followed was heavy–thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil.

Alejandro stood by the bed, his jacket slung carelessly over the chair, sleeves rolled up as he stared at the two

men.

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.

Taking out his phone, he dialed a number. “Martins,” he said coolly. “Bring another car to the motel. The one we came with is with Antonio.”

“Yes, sir,” came the brisk response.

“Good. Make it fast.”

As he ended the call, the faint sound of shuffling broke through the quiet.

His eyes flicked toward the two men. The one with the broken arm whimpered, while the other, still bleeding from the mouth, was inching toward the nightstand where a knife had fallen earlier.

Alejandro’s expression didn’t change as he looked

away.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, still not facing them.

But the subtle scrape of movement came anyway–a shift of feet, a chair leg dragging across the floor, a sharp intake of breath.

Alejandro smirked faintly. “Wrong move,” he murmured.

He turned just as one of the men lunged.

The first came in low, trying to tackle him around the waist, but Alejandro sidestepped smoothly, bringing his elbow down hard on the man’s spine.

Chapter 219

A strangled grunt escaped his lips as he collapsed forward, but the second was already charging–faster, more coordinated than he expected.

This one was the trained one.

He swung a knife–small, curved, meant for close work. Alejandro ducked under the first swipe and caught the man’s wrist mid–strike. Their bodies slammed into the wall, the force rattling the old frame of the building.

The man tried to twist the knife, but Alejandro grabbed his throat with his free hand, slamming him once, twice against the wall until the knife dropped. The other goon recovered and jumped in, swinging a broken bottle at Alejandro’s side.

Where the hell had he gotten that from?

The sharp glass grazed his arm, slicing through fabric and skin.

Alejandro hissed, the sting sharp and hot–but it only fueled him.

He drove his knee into the first man’s gut, knocking the air out of him, and spun to block the bottle with his forearm, trapping the second man’s wrist.

“You should’ve stayed down,” Alejandro growled.

He twisted the man’s arm sharply, and a crack echoed through the room followed by a howl of pain.

The fight devolved into chaos–grunts, shuffling, the dull thud of flesh against flesh. The trained one recovered quickly, grabbing the fallen knife and rushing Alejandro again, aiming for his ribs.

Alejandro barely dodged, feeling the blade slice along his side. Pain flared, white–hot, but he didn’t hesitate. He caught the man’s wrist again, this time turning his own body with the motion–using the attacker’s momentum against him.

In one smooth movement, Alejandro slammed the man’s arm into the doorframe, twisting it behind his back until the knife clattered to the floor. He followed it with a brutal punch to the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

The second goon tried to grab Alejandro from behind, but Alejandro spun and fired his elbow backward into the man’s nose. The crunch was loud–wet. The man staggered, blood spraying, but Alejandro didn’t stop there.

He caught the back of his head and slammed it down onto the edge of the table. The wood cracked.

Both men hit the ground, gasping, broken, bleeding. One tried to crawl away, dragging his leg behind him. Alejandro kicked the knife out of reach and pressed his gun to the crawling man’s thigh.

The man froze.

Alejandro’s breathing was steady again, his composure returning as fast as it had broken. The cut on his arm still oozed, staining the cuff of his sleeve, but he didn’t seem to notice. He crouched beside them, voice calm but lethal.

Chapter 219

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“You thought you could take me?” His tone was almost amused. “You should’ve learned who you were dealing with.”

Then, without hesitation, he fired two quick shots–cach bullet lodging itself in each of their thighs. Thankfully, his gun always had a silencer attached to it.

Both screamed out in pain, collapsing fully. The sound echoed through the small room, but Alejandro didn’t flinch.

He calmly sat on the edge of the bed, his gun resting casually on his knee as he pointed it at them.

“Don’t move,” he warned, his gaze icy. “Now you wait until my men get here. Try to crawl, and I’ll aim higher next time.”

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, but his finger rested lazily on the trigger–daring them to test his patience.

The minutes dragged by until the muffled sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. The door creaked open, and Martins stepped inside with two guards behind him.

His eyes quickly assessed the scene–blood splattered on the carpet, overturned furniture, and the two men groaning in pain on the floor.

A small smirk tugged at Martins’s lips. “Look like you had some fun,” he remarked

Alejandro didn’t return the smile. “They tried to get creative.”

“Not very smart of them,” Martins remarked dryly before motioning to the guards. “Get them out.”

As the guards moved in, one of the goons tried to struggle, but Martins silenced him with a swift, brutal hit to the back of the head. The man slumped instantly.

The second tried to crawl away but met the same fate–Martins’s boot pressing down firmly on his chest before a precise blow to the temple knocked him unconscious.

“Clean,” Martins said, brushing off his gloves.

Alejandro holstered his gun and stood. “Take them to the warehouse. I’ll question them myself later.”

Martins knelt to pick up the discarded knife and bottle shards. “They got a few good swings in,” he remarked, glancing at Alejandro’s blood–streaked arm.

Alejandro shrugged. “Nothing new.”

The guards began dragging the unconscious men toward the door, their bodies leaving faint smears of blood along the cheap flooring.

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