THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 117: The CCTV...

Chapter 117: The CCTV...

It took a moment before his man finally replied, and when the message came through, it was brief yet telling.

"No, sir. She hasn’t been anywhere else."

Tryson’s gaze darkened instantly upon reading the text. His fingers clenched around his phone, his jaw tightening in suppressed fury.

A cold, dangerous glint flickered in his eyes as he exhaled slowly, resisting the overwhelming urge to storm up to Arthur and force him to reveal Angel’s whereabouts.

But just as the impulse took hold, another thought slid into his mind—a sharper, more strategic approach.

Without a word, still masked and unreadable, Tryson slipped a hand into his pocket.

His movements were calculated, his posture tense but controlled.

As he stepped out of the room, he raised his phone to his ear, ensuring his voice remained steady over the distant thrum of music and laughter that poured in from the ongoing party. He wouldn’t allow the noise to interfere with what came next.

"I want the security camera footage covering the bathrooms—every floor. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done. Now. And send me the exact room address. I’ll be there soon."

His voice was low, lethal, carrying the kind of authority that made disobedience unthinkable. Without waiting for confirmation, he ended the call and pushed forward.

As soon as he stepped into the quieter corridor beyond the party, his phone vibrated again.

Another message.

Tryson flicked his gaze down to the screen, his expression unreadable, but the second he saw the sender’s name—Kelvin—his grip on the phone tightened slightly.

The message was simple, but it carried enough weight to make his eyes narrow.

"Sir, he was shot. He’s at the hospital now."

For a fleeting second, silence settled over Tryson’s thoughts. Then, a slow, knowing smirk curved his lips.

Arthur.

Tryson had known him for too long, had learned his ways inside and out, and this only confirmed what he suspected. The man hadn’t changed. Not one bit.

Luca was never meant to be the target—he was a pawn in Arthur’s game. And now, with Luca hospitalized, Tryson knew exactly where this was going.

But that was fine. Luca had served his purpose. The real player in this game was Arthur, and soon enough, Tryson would make sure the bastard paid for every move he’d made.

"Okay then," Tryson muttered in response, his voice void of emotion.

Just as he was about to pocket his phone, another buzz signaled an incoming message. This time, it was from his men. The location of the CCTV room had been secured.

With steady, unhurried steps, Tryson moved toward the designated area.

His expression was void of anything but cold calculation, his every step carrying a silent promise of consequence.

Upon reaching the door, his gaze lingered on the knob for a split second before his fingers wrapped around it. He turned it and pushed the door open.

Inside, his men were already at work, fingers gliding across keyboards, eyes locked onto multiple screens.

But what caught Tryson’s attention first wasn’t the flickering security footage—it was the unconscious bodies sprawled across the floor.

The real CCTV operators.

Tryson’s smirk deepened, his amusement flickering just briefly before his attention snapped back to business.

His men, noticing his presence, didn’t need instructions. One of them swiftly handed him a tablet, the data already pulled up and ready for him to review.

Without a word, Tryson accepted the device. His eyes scanned the screen, absorbing the feed in front of him.

Then, his expression darkened.

Encrypted footage.

They really thought they could bury the truth beneath layers of digital barriers?

Fools.

Tryson’s fingers tightened around the tablet, his smirk vanishing into something far more chilling.

If they thought this was enough to keep him from the truth, they were about to learn just how wrong they were.

Tryson’s mind worked rapidly as his sharp eyes remained locked onto the screen.

He watched as Angel’s figure moved into the bathroom, her presence unmistakable. Then, after a few seconds, she reappeared—walking out with the same poised grace. But something was wrong.

His expression darkened.

He replayed the footage, his fingers tightening around the tablet as his gaze zeroed in on a single detail.

The ring.

The ring he had given her.

It was gone.

Tryson knew for certain that Angel had been wearing it before she entered the bathroom. He had seen it himself. There was no way she would have taken it off. Not willingly.

A sharp flick of his finger paused the video. His jaw tightened as he zoomed in, his cold stare scrutinizing the grainy footage.

"Decrypt the video," he ordered, his voice laced with quiet authority. "This footage has been tampered with. Angel was wearing a ring when she walked into the bathroom. Now, she’s not wearing anything. Someone altered this."

His men exchanged quick glances before nodding, immediately turning their focus back to the computer.

Fingers flew over keyboards, algorithms running as they worked to strip away the layers of manipulation hiding the truth.

While they worked, Tryson’s attention drifted toward the unconscious men sprawled on the floor.

Bald-headed.

Unmasked.

Something about them felt... off.

A deep frown crept onto his face as his instincts screamed that something wasn’t right.

His sharp gaze trailed over their clothing, a flicker of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind. He knew those outfits.

Moving with deliberate caution, Tryson stepped forward, his boots making no sound against the floor. He crouched beside them, his keen eyes scanning their bodies. Then, just as his gaze swept over the wrist of one of the men, something caught his attention.

A mark.

Tryson’s eyes narrowed.

His hand reached out, pulling aside the fabric that partially concealed the symbol.

His breath stilled.

His expression turned to stone.

There, inked into the man’s skin, was a tattoo—a snake coiled like a tangled twist.

The mark of the Alexander Mafia Clan.

Tryson’s grip on the cloth tightened, his jaw clenching as a dangerous realization sank in.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This was a message.

And whoever had sent it was about to learn exactly what kind of mistake they had made.

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