THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 96: Spy on her...

Chapter 96: Spy on her...

"Yes! I was sent to spy on her!"

Tryson halted, the cotton just a breath away from making contact. A slow, satisfied smile curled his lips as he straightened, eyes gleaming with triumph.

Tryson slowly peeled the cotton away from the man’s face, his sharp eyes locked onto the bruised figure before him.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips as he spoke, his voice deceptively calm.

"So, you were sent to spy on her."

The man swallowed hard and gave a stiff nod.

Tryson’s gaze darkened. "Your other people—tell me where they’re located."

For a fleeting moment, the man hesitated, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

Tryson, evidently out of patience for the man’s theatrics, lifted the dampened cotton once more. But before he could press it back against the man’s skin, the prisoner blurted out frantically,

"Really, really! Mr. Arthur promised me a huge sum if I just did this job!" His voice was rushed, desperate, his breath uneven.

Tryson’s expression shifted, a deep frown forming on his face. Something about this didn’t add up.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, though he already knew Arthur wouldn’t send a clueless amateur for such a job—especially not someone who would crumble so easily under pressure.

Unless...

"I know nothing about this!" the man cried out, his voice shaking with fear. "I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m just a man off the streets, and Mr. Arthur—he offered me money to stand outside your suite and report whatever I saw to his men."

Tryson’s blood ran cold. His jaw clenched as the realization struck.

"Shit."

Arthur had used this man as bait.

"Fuck," Tryson muttered under his breath.

His chest tightened with paranoia—if this was just a distraction, then what the hell was Arthur really up to?

And worse... what did this mean for Angel?

Without a second thought, Tryson swung his fist, landing a solid punch across the man’s jaw. The prisoner groaned, his body recoiling as pain erupted across his face.

Before he could recover, Tryson’s men stepped closer, their eyes gleaming with ruthless intent.

"So, boss..." one of them asked, his tone indifferent. "Should we kill him?"

The man on the chair flinched violently, his eyes wide with terror. He whipped his head toward Tryson and began shaking it with desperation.

"No, no, please!" he begged, his voice breaking. "Have mercy on me!"

Tryson crouched to his level, his cold, dead eyes piercing straight through the man’s soul. His voice, low and deadly, sent a chill down the prisoner’s spine.

"You wouldn’t be begging if you knew this was the price of your actions."

Tears welled in the man’s eyes as he stammered, "B-but I didn’t know anything! I swear!"

Tryson scoffed, unimpressed by the man’s childish fear.

He grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back against the chair. Killing him would be pointless—he was nothing more than a disposable pawn in Arthur’s twisted game.

No, there was a better use for him.

"Don’t kill him," Tryson ordered, his voice like ice. "He’s still useful. Arthur sent him here, so we’ll use him to lure Arthur out in return."

The man shuddered but nodded frantically, his fear outweighing any thoughts of defiance.

"I-I’ll do it! Whatever you need!" he stammered.

Tryson narrowed his eyes. "What’s your name?"

"Luca," the man replied instantly. "Luca is what they call me." His voice quivered with dread.

Tryson studied him for a moment longer, then, without another word, turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

The moment Tryson stepped out of the dimly lit room, his men immediately closed in around him, their movements swift and efficient.

One adjusted the collar of his suit, another straightened the cuffs of his sleeves, while yet another handed him a sleek black mask.

Tryson took it wordlessly, his expression unreadable as he slipped it over his face, securing it in place.

His presence alone commanded authority, and his men knew better than to waste his time with unnecessary chatter.

Just as he was getting fully dressed, one of his men stepped forward, his posture rigid and professional, signaling the urgency of his words.

"Sir, you have a call," the man announced, extending a phone toward him with both hands, as if handling something of great importance.

Tryson let out a quiet hiss of annoyance but took the device regardless, pressing it against his ear.

The voice that greeted him was urgent and laced with frustration.

"Bro, you need to get here. Fast."

It was Samson.

Tryson let out a slow exhale, lifting a hand to his forehead as he gently massaged his temples. He could already tell this was about to be a headache.

"How’s it going, Sam?" he asked, his tone clipped, but controlled.

On the other end of the line, Samson scoffed, clearly exasperated.

"Really, big bro? Are you seriously asking me that right now? I told you from the start that this was a bad idea, but no—of course, you had to be stubborn about it!"

Tryson’s expression hardened. His patience was running thin. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"I’m trying to say that I’m currently hiding in the goddamn bathroom, big bro! That’s how bad it’s going!" Samson hissed, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. "She won’t leave me alone! And worse—way worse—I think she already suspects that I’m not actually you."

Tryson had already stepped outside, his long strides carrying him across the pavement toward the sleek black car waiting at the curb.

The night air was cool, but his mind was already racing too fast to notice.

As he reached the vehicle, one of his men stepped forward and pulled the door open for him. Without breaking stride, he slid smoothly into the leather seat, still holding the phone to his ear.

"Eventually, she’s going to figure it out if you’re not playing your role right," Tryson stated, his voice low, his words weighted with warning.

There was a beat of silence before Samson scoffed, clearly unimpressed by his brother’s indifference.

"Oh really, big bro? So what—you actually expect me to kiss your woman?" Samson shot back, his voice a mixture of disbelief and irritation.

At that, Tryson’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. A cold, dangerous silence stretched between them.

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