The moonlight cast a frosted glow, devoid of tenderness, bathing the concrete jungle in bone-chilling cold.

On the dock, the sea breeze carried the smell of rust and salt, mingling with the thick scent of blood as it howled through the night like wailing ghosts.

The city's two largest gangs—the Wolf Pack from the North District and the Red Scorpion Gang from the South—were locked in their final shootout. Gunfire and roars filled the air, almost tangible in their intensity.

Leading them was a man in a blood-spattered white trench coat—Damian Frost, godfather of the Wolf Pack.

He charged through the maze of shipping containers with predatory grace, each strike precise and lethal, each gunshot ending in a spray of crimson.

Gunfire erupted in rapid succession, making the sinful harbor tremble beneath its fury.

Then a different sound—a sharp whistle—cut through the battlefield's chaos.

This wasn't the ordinary sound of a bullet slicing air.

Nor was it the crisp crack of bones breaking under a blunt weapon.

A bullet, fired with uncanny precision from an impossible angle, hurtled toward Damian.

He tried to dodge, but the bullet's speed defied his expectations.

Too late.

*Thwack!*

The bullet tore through his skull.

Pain exploded like a supernova, as if someone had thrust a red-hot poker into his brain, twisting every nerve ending.

"Argh!"

A suppressed, inhuman howl of agony tore through the night.

Damian's tall frame convulsed violently mid-air, the world before him instantly dissolving into a crimson blur of shimmering shadows.

He crashed to the ground, blood gushing from his temple, further clouding his already failing vision.

The battlefield's overwhelming stench—blood, salt, gun oil, and decay—transformed into millions of steel needles piercing his brain, triggering violent nausea and vertigo.

"Boss!"

His loyal lieutenant roared in terror and rushed recklessly forward, using his own body as a human shield.

They desperately rushed their unconscious leader back to "Winter Fortress," the heavily guarded estate in the North District.

In the estate's private medical room, tension hung like a suffocating shroud.

The Frost Family's senior physician studied Damian's brain scan, his wrinkled face etched with grim resignation.

"The shrapnel is compressing his visual nerve center, causing severe damage."

"This damage is nearly irreversible. Attempting to remove the shrapnel would carry a mortality rate above ninety percent."

His voice cracked with desperation.

"His vision is severely compromised—he can only make out vague outlines. His sense of smell has become hypersensitive; any strong odor triggers debilitating headaches."

"Worst of all, the trauma has triggered severe PTSD. He's likely to experience extreme paranoia and irritability. Any stimulation could cause him to snap."

The moment the doctor finished speaking, Damian's eyes snapped open.

His once cold, calculating eyes now blazed bloodshot, churning with uncontrollable violence and madness.

"Get out!"

He growled like a cornered beast, snatched the metal cup from his bedside, and hurled it against the wall.

The expensive stainless steel crumpled like paper.

Outside the door, his fiancée Seraphina Monroe witnessed everything.

Ice flooded her veins, her extremities trembling uncontrollably.

Was this truly her future husband?

The legendary, aloof crime lord who had unified the entire northern district with an iron fist?

Now he was nothing but a wounded beast in a cage, capable only of senseless destruction.

She couldn't fathom spending her life with this monster who might snap at any moment.

Would she become his next target? Would he crush her as easily as that cup?

Fear coiled around her heart like strangling vines.

The Godfather’s Substitute Bride — Chapter 8

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