I’m Home

“Move! Clear the lane! Disperse immediately!” The chaotic roar of Riverdale City International Airport shattered as heavy boots stomped against the pavement.

Over forty muscular guards clad in sharp black suits sprinted into the express pickup lane, forcefully shoving the bewildered crowds back. They formed an impenetrable human wall, their faces locked in grim concentration as if preparing for an impending war.

A deafening mechanical roar answered their efforts. Eighteen pristine black Maybachs tore around the terminal bend in perfect, aggressive synchronization. The imposing motorcade boxed out all incoming traffic, their tires screeching against the asphalt in a fierce display of power. They parted down the middle, making way for a monolithic, custom-built Lincoln limousine that coasted into the designated VIP zone with unapologetic, king-like arrogance.

Stunned travelers mashed their faces against the glass terminal windows. Camera flashes erupted like a strobe light storm. Whispers tore through the massive crowd. Who commanded a fleet like this in Riverdale? What kind of titan had just touched down to warrant such an extravagant welcome?

Inside the heavily tinted, soundproof cabin of the Lincoln, the atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the frenzy outside. Dante Thorne slouched deep into the hand-stitched white leather upholstery. He looked utterly ridiculous against the backdrop of multimillion-dollar luxury. He wore a set of tattered, frayed camouflage fatigues and a pair of cheap plastic slippers. He casually swirled a glass of premium Bordeaux red wine, the deep ruby liquid catching the soft ambient lighting of the cabin.

He took a sip and released a long, deep sigh of sheer appreciation. “God, this seat is comfortable. Beats the hell out of those freezing metal stools. Three agonizing years freezing my ass off in that godforsaken North Pole, and I can finally feel my toes. Now this is living.”

Dante leaned toward the tinted window, watching the towering glass skyscrapers of Riverdale blur past. As the legendary Lord of Strike for the Dragon Vanguard, playing it safe and keeping a low profile had never been his brand. If you carried the title of a living god of war, you wore it with the arrogant swagger it demanded. Besides, the old Marshal, Victor Graves, was getting up there in years and had no children. Someone had to help the old man spend his massive fortune, and Dante felt it was his solemn duty to take up that burden.

“Ah, Riverdale,” Dante muttered, his voice trailing off as a rush of distant memories flooded his senses. He stretched his stiff shoulders, the joints popping loudly in the quiet cabin, and shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror. He locked eyes with the man behind the wheel. “Are you one of the old Marshal’s men, brother?”

The driver stiffened so fast he nearly jerked the steering wheel. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Y-Yes, Dragon Head, sir!” The man’s voice trembled with the sheer, unadulterated excitement of driving the most legendary general in the nation's history. He practically shouted his introduction. “I am Colonel Jaxon Reed! Second-in-command of the Riverdale territory, sir! It is my great honor to—”

“Relax, Jaxon,” Dante interrupted, lazily waving his free hand. He kicked his slippered feet up onto the mahogany console. “Drop the heavy titles. No need to shout your rank at me. I'm just a retired civilian now.”

“Sir, you will always be a general to the Dragon Vanguard!” Jaxon insisted, his voice thick with unyielding reverence. His grip on the leather steering wheel tightened. “The country may have revoked your active military authority, but you are the Lord of Strike. The old Marshal made his orders crystal clear. We are to provide you with our full support in Riverdale. Whatever you need, we handle it.”

Jaxon hesitated for a fraction of a second, a sheepish, nervous smile breaking through his rigid military composure. “However... the old Marshal also explicitly stated he will not tolerate wasteful spending. He ordered me to inform you that the rental costs for this Maybach fleet and the Lincoln will be deducted directly from your military pension.”

Dante choked on his wine. He lowered the glass, his hard-earned sense of gratitude evaporating into thin air. He glared at the roof of the car and rolled his eyes. “That cheap old fox!” Dante snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Forget the sightseeing. He leaned forward. “Step on the gas, Jaxon. I want to see my daughter right now.”

“Yes, sir!”

An hour later, the extravagant motorcade slowed to a halt outside the worn, modest iron gates of Pinewood Gardens. The sprawling apartment complex looked old and weathered, a stark contrast to the imposing line of Maybachs idling on the street.

Jaxon quickly exited the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. As Dante stepped out onto the cracked pavement, Jaxon handed him a thick, heavily sealed manila envelope.

“Dragon Head,” Jaxon said, his tone dropping to a respectful murmur. “This file contains all the comprehensive intelligence we gathered on your wife and daughter. I will withdraw my men so you can have your family reunion in peace. Say the word, and we will mobilize.”

“Good work, brother.” Dante clapped Jaxon on the shoulder. The simple gesture sent a shockwave of pride through the Colonel, who threw up a rigid salute and respectfully withdrew.

Dante navigated the winding pathways of the aging residential area, his boots crunching over dry leaves. He found Block 1, walking down the dim corridor until he stood before the peeling paint of Room 102.

He didn't knock right away. Instead, he leaned against the concrete wall, pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. He took a drag, the cherry burning bright in the dim hallway, and cracked open the thick seal of the envelope.

As he flipped through the dense pages of intelligence, a suffocating sense of absurdity and grievance clamped down on his chest. He was the Lord of Strike, a man who commanded legions and held the fate of nations in his bloodied hands. Yet, he knew nothing about his own flesh and blood.

“Elena Caldwell,” Dante murmured through a cloud of smoke.

His gaze locked onto a photograph clipped to the second page. A stunningly beautiful woman with tired but gentle eyes stared back at him. Seeing her face triggered a rapid surge of memories.

Five years ago, during a top-secret covert operation right here in Riverdale, their paths had collided. He had intercepted a human trafficking ring, rescuing a severely drugged Elena from her captors. The heavy narcotics pumping through her veins had stripped away her consciousness, leaving her burning with an unnatural, feverish heat.

He had been young, reckless, and running on pure adrenaline. Fueled by youth and raw impulsiveness, they spent a passionate night together in a safe house. It had been his very first time. He remembered the exact details of that frantic night. The air in the room was suffocatingly hot. He remembered parting her thighs, aligning himself, and thrusting his hard cock deep into her wet vagina, the intense, primal friction overwhelming his senses as they tangled together on the ruined sheets.

When dawn broke, reality set in. He was a soldier bound for a warzone, carrying a death wish and no promises of tomorrow. He had left her sleeping peacefully. He emptied his bank accounts, leaving every cent of his savings on the nightstand along with a handwritten letter explaining who he was. He issued strict, undeniable orders to his Vanguard operatives to watch over her from the shadows.

He thought he had handled it. He never imagined she would get pregnant.

Dante’s eyes scanned the harsh, unforgiving text of the intelligence report. The words felt like physical blows.

Elena was the rightful heiress to the wealthy, prominent Caldwell family. But when her out-of-wedlock pregnancy came to light, they didn't support her. They threw her to the wolves. She was publicly disowned, stripped of her titles, and cast out onto the streets for tarnishing the family name. Overnight, she went from a pampered heiress to a disgraced outcast.

For five grueling years, Elena endured relentless public ridicule, malicious gossip, and crushing isolation. She lived in poverty, skipping meals and working double shifts just to keep the lights on, raising their daughter all alone. She carried the heavy burden of a man who had vanished like a ghost.

Painful guilt relentlessly gnawed at Dante’s heart. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently stroking the photograph of Elena and a little girl with bright, angelic smiles.

“You silly woman,” Dante whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion. “Why didn't you just tell them? Why did you endure all this hardship for a ghost?”

He dropped the cigarette onto the concrete, crushing the ember under the heel of his slipper. He took a deep, jagged breath. When he looked up, the sorrow in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a fierce, worldly disdain.

“No more,” Dante vowed to the empty hallway, his voice a lethal, quiet promise. “From this second forward, no one harms you. No one disrespects you. Not the Caldwells, not this city, and not God himself.”

He readied himself. He rolled his shoulders, stepped up to the battered wooden door of Room 102, and raised his fist to knock. He was ready to push forward, ready to pull his family into a massive embrace and shield them from the world.

But his fist froze an inch from the wood.

An intense, paralyzing wave of anxiety slammed into him, rooting his feet to the floor. Would they even accept him? He was a stranger. A phantom who had ruined her life and left her to suffer for five agonizing years. Why should she open this door and welcome him? Why should a daughter he had never met look at him with anything but fear?

The man who had charged into hails of gunfire without a second thought stood frozen in front of a cheap apartment door, terrified.

He stood in anxious hesitation for five long minutes. The silence in the hallway stretched tight, amplifying the heavy thud of his racing heart.

Smack!

A small, hard pebble abruptly bounced off the back of Dante’s head.

“Hey, creep! What are you loitering outside our house for?”

A high-pitched, screeching voice shattered the quiet.

Dante whirled around, his combat instincts flaring, only to look down. Standing at the end of the corridor was a fierce little girl. She wore a slightly faded pink princess dress and her hair was tied up in messy pigtails. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, glaring at him with large, beady eyes filled with extreme wariness.