MobLand plunges us into chaos as Episode 7 opens on the blood-soaked Antwerp warehouse. Gunfire has shattered crates and blown out windows beneath flickering fluorescent lights. Harry O’Hara arrives amid the aftermath — the word “WAR” scrawled in crimson on the wall is a grim warning. Bullet-riddled casings and dark blood slither across the concrete floor, evidence of a nightmare ambush. Smoke coils through the beams as Harry whispers a curse into the radio, his silent horror speaking volumes.
In the cavernous war room of the Harrigan manor, Conrad and Kevin stare grimly at the remnants of news from Antwerp. Low lamplight illuminates heavy wood paneling and secret maps as Harry recounts every chilling detail of the warehouse slaughter. Maeve sits stiffly at the long table, fingers caressing a chilled whiskey glass, her eyes darting with secret calculations behind that drained expression. Conrad’s face is a grave mask—he listens to Kevin’s shaken voice, then snaps, “Who gave them our location?” The family realizes with a chill that their turf is no longer their own.
In private, Maeve Harrigan collapses to her knees and weeps—but only after the servants have left. Later, she smooths her makeup and secretly dials Richie’s number from beneath the table. In a cold voice she broaches a cutthroat deal: Seraphina’s life in exchange for Brendan’s safety. Conrad demands to see the phone; Maeve snaps her compact shut and hisses, “If you need to check my phone, we’re done.” Each measured step she takes away from the table is the quiet aftermath of treachery, the sweet perfume of control vanishing with every footstep.
Richie Stevenson reappears on every screen with a wild, manic grin. He’s hijacked a local news feed from behind a cracked window, his face half-lit by the red glow of police scanners. He mocks the Harrigans and demands blood-for-blood vengeance in a twisted manifesto. He cackles into the camera, each word dripping with raw mania as viewers watch his cold eyes threaten retribution. The feed alternates between his tirade and footage of panicked bystanders, turning the carnage into a public spectacle that fuels the mob war like gasoline on a fire.
Conrad Harrigan finally snaps. He storms out and throws open his private armory, fingers tightening on engraved triggers. Outside, midnight rain begins to fall as Conrad—pistol drawn—announces a savage decree: “No more games!” His roar echoes against stone walls as his men mobilize under the stormy sky. In a haze of cigar smoke he quietly promises vengeance: the Stevensons will pay for every drop of Harrigan blood spilled. His icy stare and the glint of cold steel say it all—no mercy will be shown this time.
Harry O’Hara suits up alone in the dead of night, the weight of what he’s about to do heavy on his shoulders. He checks his magazines one final time and mounts a roaring motorcycle. By dawn he speeds down a rain-slicked highway out of London, engine echoing beneath empty overpasses. In each thunderous breath he prays for Seraphina and Brendan’s safety, pushing exhaustion aside. Streetlights blur in his mirrors as he disappears into the morning fog—one man on a one-way mission to rescue the only family he has left.
At the Antwerp deal site, horror strikes. Masked cartel gunmen in balaclavas burst through the doors with rifles blazing, boots splashing in the puddles left by Harry’s bike. Seraphina and Brendan collapse to the floor screaming as bullets tear into wooden crates; sparks fly as metal fragments clatter across concrete. In an instant the warehouse is consumed by muzzle flashes and blood — a cruel, deafening ballet of hired killers. Harry can only watch helplessly from the distance, driving through the gunfire like a wraith as his worst fear unfolds before him.
In the smoke-choked silence that follows, only horror remains. Seraphina kneels over Brendan’s lifeless form, clutching his hand and begging him to wake. His eyes stare blankly at the high ceiling as dark blood pools beneath him. Conrad’s phone crackles back in London. “Brendan’s gone,” whispers a shattered voice on the line. The patriarch’s face contorts in grief — too late, his son is dead. A single rose drops to the concrete floor and wilts in the spreading red stain: the cost of this war is now painfully, irrevocably real.
From the depths of that heartbreak, Conrad’s fury ignites. He steps forward with a storm in his eyes and a voice as cold as steel. “Richie Stevenson’s world ends tonight,” he growls, leveling a pistol toward the distant city lights. Thunder cracks across the night sky— the very heavens seem to tremble at his promise. His vow is savage and absolute: all of Richie’s life will burn to ashes by dawn, and the Harrigans know it.
In the final seconds, as the Harrigans spiral into all-out war, a new shadow steps onto the stage. Kat McAllister’s face is half-hidden in darkness; she stands in the doorway as golden light spills around her like a halo of secrets. The camera barely catches the glint of her knowing smile before cutting away. Her presence hangs in the air like a thunderclap — a dangerous unknown about to reshape the battlefield. Her presence alone means a new, deadlier game is just beginning.
