Chapter 723: Nickolai Is Framed

"Who doesn’t?" she retorted, her tone dry. "The famous billionaire who built an empire overnight? You’re the kind of guy who makes headlines whether he wants to or not."

I waved a hand dismissively. "It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. But since we’re exchanging names..." I raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn’t I get yours in return?"

Claire studied me for a long moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. Then, finally, she relented. "Claire," she said simply. "Claire Starling."

I repeated her name softly, as if testing its weight. "Claire Starling." It suited her—sharp, unyielding, a little untouchable.

She held my gaze for a beat longer, her expression unreadable. "You’re not what I expected, Jack," she admitted, her voice quiet.

"Most civilians would’ve run the second the shooting started. But you..." She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn’t quite figure me out. "You stayed. You fought."

I met her eyes, my voice equally soft. "I couldn’t just leave you behind. Not after what you did for me."

Claire’s gaze flickered away for a moment, as if my words had caught her off guard. When she looked back at me, there was something new in her expression—something raw, almost like gratitude, but tinged with a vulnerability she didn’t let many see. "Get some sleep," she murmured, her voice already thick with exhaustion. "Tomorrow’s going to be a long day."

I nodded, but I knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Not after everything. Not with the weight of the night still pressing down on me. "I’ll be right back," I said quietly, slipping off the bed and padding toward the washroom. The door clicked shut behind me, the dim light flickering to life as I pulled out my phone.

I didn’t waste time.

"SERA,"

I whispered, my voice barely audible, the bathroom fan humming just loud enough to mask my words.

"Update me on Natalya’s team. And Claire’s people."

The response flashed across the screen like a blade to the ribs:

"Italian forces bombed the apartment where Andrey and Claire’s team were stationed. No survivors."

Italian forces?

My mind raced.

Where the hell did the Italians come from?

Then SERA’s analysis unfolded, piece by piece, and the brutal genius of it hit me like a freight train.

Andrey wasn’t just a double agent—he was a

triple

one. The Italians had known. They’d known he was playing both the FBI and Nickolai, that he was positioned to betray them all when the time came. So they’d acted first. Not just to eliminate a traitor—but to

frame

Nickolai.

A bomb in the heart of the city. No survivors. The FBI would blame Nickolai. The Americans would hunt him down with everything they had. And while Nickolai was busy running—or dying—the Italians would swoop in, taking over his empire without firing a single shot of their own.

Brilliant. Ruthless.

I leaned against the sink, my reflection staring back at me in the cracked mirror. The man looking back wasn’t just Jack Reynolds, billionaire. He was a storm waiting to break. A force that didn’t just play the game—it

rewrote

the rules.

I pulled up Natalya’s contact, my fingers flying over the screen.

"Natalya,"

I typed, my message sharp and direct.

"I handled the FBI. Stand your people down. And tell your father to leave Claire alone. I will handle her."

I hit send. No reply. Of course not—it was the middle of the night. Natalya was asleep, oblivious to the bloodbath unfolding around her. But she needed to know. Needed to

understand

.

I hesitated only a second before making my decision. If Natalya was going to trust me, she needed to see the truth about my powers. I decided to show her my abilities in the morning.

When I stepped back into the room, Claire was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady, her gun still tucked beneath her pillow like a promise. I stood there for a moment, watching her—the woman who had saved my life without hesitation, who had fought like a cornered wolf. She had no idea how deep the conspiracy ran. How much darker the game had become.

The faint scent of her perfume—something sharp, floral, unyielding—filled the air. I let myself breathe it in before lying down, the weight of the night pressing down on me like a tombstone.

When I woke, the room was bathed in the eerie glow of the TV. Claire was already awake, her back rigid as she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes locked on the screen. I rubbed my eyes, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, and turned to see what had her so transfixed.

The news anchor’s voice cut through the silence like a blade:

"Breaking news: A terrorist attack has leveled an entire building in the heart of the city. Authorities are still investigating, but early reports suggest no survivors."

Claire’s hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned bone-white, her entire body trembling with a rage so deep it seemed to vibrate in the air between us. "Fuck," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief.

"That’s my team. That’s Andrey." Her breath hitched, her shoulders shaking as she turned to me, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. "Nickolai did this," she said, her voice raw, broken. "He bombed them. He killed them all."

The pain in her voice was a physical force, a blade twisting in my chest. I could see it—the way her world was crumbling, the way the loss was carving something out of her. She wasn’t just angry. She was destroyed.

I reached for her, my hand hovering over her shoulder before I let it rest there, gentle but firm. "Claire," I said, my voice low, steady. "Look at me."

She didn’t. Her gaze was locked on the TV, on the images of the smoldering ruins, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, the reporters speculating about casualties. "They’re gone," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Just like that. Gone."

"I know," I said, my grip tightening slightly. "And I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for this. But you can’t do this alone. Not like this."

Her head snapped toward me, her eyes burning with a fury so intense it was almost terrifying. "I can do this alone," she spat. "I have to. Because if I don’t, who will? The FBI? They don’t even know yet. They’re still scratching their heads, trying to figure out what the hell happened. By the time they do, Nickolai will be long gone, laughing while he sips his fucking vodka in some safe house halfway across the world."

"And what if he’s not?" I countered, my voice calm but unyielding. "What if he’s waiting for you? What if this is exactly what he wants—for you to come at him blind with rage, so he can finish the job?"