My Husband Is a Million Years Old Vampire-Chapter 168

Raymond’s eyes flicked toward her.

"He’s the only person I’ve ever really feared," Valentina confessed. "He always had this... power. Not just money, but influence. Darkness too. There’s something off about him."

Her fingers tightened into a small fist. "I heard stories, Raymond. About what he’s done to others. Molestation. Abuse. Threats. He’s not just some rich man’s son—he’s dangerous. Unstable."

She shook her head, quickly blinking back whatever emotion tried to rise. "I was lucky he didn’t get that far with me. I kept running before he could even get close enough to trap me... but if he wanted to? I don’t think he would’ve stopped."

Raymond didn’t say anything at first, but his mind was racing. Daniel Bushman... or as he now remembered from his file—Damien Bushman. It finally clicked.

So he was the one.

Raymond exhaled quietly, keeping his expression steady so as not to alarm Valentina.

"Damien..." he muttered under his breath.

Valentina tilted her head. "What did you say?"

Raymond glanced at her. "Nothing. I was just... thinking out loud. Thank Goodness he’s out of the country now."

Valentina nodded slowly, her shoulders finally easing. "Yeah... thank God."

Neither of them said another word on the ride home. But both were thinking the same thing—he may be gone for now... but that kind of man doesn’t disappear forever, and Raymond knew what to do.

**

Far across the ocean, in a hidden corner of a darkened district known to only the cruelest of men, a circle had been formed.

Five men sat in thick shadows, the air around them heavy with tension. Not just tension—grief. The wrong kind.

One of them slammed his fist into the wooden table. "We lost him... just like that."

"He wasn’t just anybody," another growled. "He was loyal. Dangerous. And he was killed like a stray dog."

The man sitting at the head of the circle, eyes glowing faintly under the low-hanging lightbulb, leaned back in his chair. His name was Santos. Ruthless. Drenched in scars that had no stories because nobody survived long enough to hear them.

He was the one Maria had gone to when she was desperate. The one who had promised her that Valentina would suffer.

But now, the man he sent had been slaughtered.

Santos ran a hand down his beard and exhaled slowly. "You all think this is about revenge. No. This is about a message."

One of the others—Yuri, built like a wall and twice as silent—clenched his jaw.

Santos’ voice lowered. "The one who killed him... isn’t ordinary. Whoever handled that mission did it clean. Too clean."

"And?" one asked, his tone half-worried, half-waiting.

Santos lit a cigarette. "And now... we find out who it was. Because if someone has the guts to kill one of ours, in our territory, they better be ready to lose everything."

He took a long drag, eyes flashing. "Call the Wolf. Tell him we’re hunting."

The room remained quiet—unforgivingly quiet—as smoke curled from Santos’ cigarette and the words hung in the air like a death sentence.

"We don’t let this go." His voice was cold, final.

One of the men leaned forward. "He was one of us. Loyal to the end."

"And killed like a rat," another hissed.

The Circle never tolerated disrespect—let alone blood spilled from one of their own. Especially him. The man they lost wasn’t just any soldier. He was the kind that handled things no one else dared to. The kind that had buried enemies in silence.

Santos rose from his seat. His heavy boots echoed as he walked around the table, his presence enough to make even the toughest of them straighten in their seats.

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the flicker of a single chandelier. The air was thick—too thick—with the weight of power and buried secrets. Five chairs, wide like thrones, formed a crooked circle. In them sat men who weren’t supposed to exist. Legends. Ghosts. Nightmares whispered in the ears of even the most corrupt elites.

At first glance, it looked like a casual gathering of successful businessmen. Expensive suits. Heavy watches. Cigars aged longer than some of their enemies lived. But beneath the surface—beneath the silk and polish—was blood, fear, and power stitched together by decades of ruthlessness.

Each man in this room led a monster of his own—one controlled an arms empire, another ran a global trafficking syndicate, another the information black market, another laundering, and the last, assassination rings. Years ago, they realized fighting each other was foolish. Greed could be united. So they came together. Not as friends. But as one body.

People thought they were thugs once. Brutes who broke bones in alleyways. But time had changed things. They wore suits now. They spoke at summits. They shook hands with politicians who pretended not to know their names.

And they protected their own.

Rico leaned back in his seat, his voice low but sharp. "They think the Circle is some bedtime story. A myth."

Mads scoffed. "Let them believe it. That way, when we strike, it’ll be scripture."

Santos didn’t speak. He just smoked, his eyes lost in the gray spiral of smoke rising above his head. But his silence wasn’t weakness—it was promise.

Silas cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping bones. "They murdered one of ours. A loyal Servants we gave him our mark."

"And someone dared to erase it," said Rico.

There was a pause. Long. Cold.

Then Santos stood, his shadow dragging behind him like a second soul.

"We were once rats in alleys. Thugs with nothing but fists and fire. They called us dogs." He turned slowly, facing each of them. "But we climbed. We built. We bled. And now..."

He reached into his coat and dropped a black pin on the table—a small, golden ring etched with a sharp black circle.

"Now they bow."

He didn’t need to raise his voice. They all felt the burn of his words.

"They fear us. Police chiefs. Judges. And they should. Because we don’t just survive anymore. We rule. Quietly. Deadly."