Chapter 423 Step on His Face
The impact was deep and merciless.
In the next heartbeat, the bottle exploded against Preston’s skull again.
Shards of glass scattered through the air and rained to the floor like a deadly shower.
Preston collapsed instantly, his body limp, his consciousness engulfed by blackness.
Tilda pressed the bottom of her shoe into his face, grinding it down with the contempt one would show to something rotting on the road.
Only when she was satisfied did she clap her hands together as if dusting them off. She then turned her back on him.
She never gave Preston another look. His head was split open, blood soaking his hair, and he lay there barely clinging to life.
“Tilda, are you okay?”
Una rushed to her, her voice carrying both panic and fire.
Tilda bent down and brushed her fingers lightly through Una’s hair. “I’m fine. Just warming up. Taking out trash doesn’t even count as effort.”
If Preston had been awake to hear that, his pride alone would have knocked him out all over again.
“That bastard! Him again! He tried something with you, and now he made you dirty your hands dealing with him!”
Una’s voice rose with rage, her eyes flashing like sparks.
Months of following Tilda had burned away the old mediator she once was.
The girl who always calmed tempers was long gone.
Her brows arched, her jaw locked tight, and she charged forward to unleash several savage kicks.
Her target was clear. She aimed straight for Preston’s crotch.
That was a lesson Tilda had drilled into her. No amount of martial arts mattered in a real moment like this.
The only way to stop a man instantly was to crush him where it hurt most.
That would take them out immediately.
It was the one pain that no man could withstand.
And sure enough, even though Preston was completely unconscious, his body jerked and convulsed when the blows landed.
His features twisted, his lips tightening with the echo of agony that pulled him deeper into misery.
The bottles to his skull had been vicious, but Una’s kicks cut deeper than both combined.
“What the hell are you two doing!”
Preston’s crew finally snapped out of their daze.
Fury lit their faces as they stormed toward the women, their shouts filling the bar.
“Mr. Preston, can you hear us?”
“God, he’s out cold! Look at all the blood!”
“Of course he’s bleeding! He just got a bottle broken over his head twice!”
“Call an ambulance now!”
One man’s glare could have torn flesh.
His voice dripped with hate as he pointed at Tilda and Una.
“You’re done. You touched Mr. Preston, and by tomorrow Slosa won’t even remember your names!”
Tilda and Una exchanged a knowing glance.
What an idiot.
He doesn’t even know who the people standing before him are?
Tilda had broken far more dangerous people than Preston.
Rebecca had been left gasping for life beneath her fists.
Entire branches of the Bells had been crushed under her hand.
She had even destroyed Rebecca right in front of Abram himself.
And this was Preston.
Preston was nothing.
“Quit running your mouths! Whatever they did to Mr. Preston, we’ll make them pay it back with interest!”
Every man in Preston’s circle knew the truth. If the Bells discovered Preston had been reduced to this in their company, they would be the ones to pay.
Their only option was to hand over the women. It was the only way to save their own skins.
Chivalry, dignity, pride–none of it mattered against the weight of survival.
Their eyes glimmered with malice as they closed in, ready to spill blood.
The tension snapped tight, ready to break into violence at any second.
The rest of the bar scrambled for safety. Nobody wanted to be caught in what was coming.
Plenty of them pitied Tilda. First she had been hunted down by Preston, and now she was trapped by his men.
But pity would not be enough to save her. Preston still carried the name of the Bells.
A woman smashing his head in for all to see was a crime too great to ignore.
No one dared to step in. None had the power to.
At most, a few slipped out to find the Nightingale Bar’s security.
“How interesting. I don’t remember anyone having the guts to break my bar’s rules. Are you going to start this trend?”
The voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and cold, and the room froze at once.
Alfie stepped forward, dressed in a suit the color of dark wine.
His height towered at six-foot-three, his hand buried in his pocket, and his face carried the grim power of a king carved out of another century.
Behind him trailed a mass of men, their bodies like a wall of muscle and steel, their eyes locked forward.
They were armed and eager, waiting for nothing but his word to tear through the crowd.
“Shit, that’s Alfie!”
“Goddamn it, why is he here?”
On paper, the Woodward family might not rival the Bells, but Alfie Woodward was untouchable.
He was the heir to the Woodward Group, and everyone knew his bond with Jude, the leader of the Bells, was iron.
Between a minor player like Preston and a man tied to Jude himself, the choice was clear.
The crowd stood frozen in fear.
This was the man destined to lead the Woodward Group.
His very presence was overwhelming.
Alfie rarely appeared in the public spaces of his own bar.
On the rare occasions he came, it was always to the highest VIP suites.
Even the most loyal patrons almost never laid eyes on him.
The women in the room shifted instantly, their hearts turning in a single breath.
Preston might have been good-looking, but beside Alfie, he was dirt on the floor.
They could not even be compared.
And if Alfie carried this kind of presence, then Jude himself, Slosa’s most feared and admired man, could only be something beyond imagining.
And they say he carries the strongest aura of them all.
“M… Mr. Alfie,” one of Preston’s men stammered, his voice breaking under the weight of the moment. “She blindsided Mr. Preston. She smashed a bottle over his head. We can’t let that go unanswered."
“Yeah, exactly! Maybe we should call the police? Then again, this can’t go public. It would be better to handle it in private.”