Chapter 7 - The Reckoning in the Hallway
The heavy oak door of the east wing splintered with a deafening crash.
Wood shards flew across the hallway as Viktor Rossi kicked his way through, his heavy overcoat billowing around him like the wings of a vulture. Behind him stood two armed thugs holding silenced submachine guns, their faces twisted into ugly grins of anticipation.
“Alistair said you were on your last legs, old man!” Viktor shouted, marching down the corridor toward the master bedroom. “You should have stayed in bed. You should have let the poison do its quiet work instead of playing nursemaid to a beggar’s brat!”
Viktor reached the master bedroom door and shoved it open.
He expected to find a shivering invalid tangled in bedsheets.
Instead, he found Damian Volkov standing upright in the center of the room.
Damian wore a charcoal dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the corded muscle beneath. His face was pale, but his posture was straight as a steel beam, and in his right hand, the barrel of the Sig Sauer was pointed directly between Viktor Rossi’s eyes.
Viktor froze, the smug smile dying instantly on his lips. His eyes went wide with sheer, unadulterated terror.
“V-Viktor... wait,” the underboss stammered, raising his hands slowly, his knees turning to water. “I—we just wanted to check on you. The syndicate was worried—”
“The syndicate,” Damian interrupted, his voice a low, terrifying hum that seemed to vibrate the glass in the windows, “consists of men who know when to wait for their turn. You, Viktor, are just a scavenger.”
“Damian, please—we’ve been brothers—!”
“You poisoned my wine,” Damian said quietly. “You thought my silence meant weakness. You thought a house guarded by walls could keep out the truth.”
Viktor opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
From behind Damian, the hidden panic room door clicked open. Lila peeked out, her pink hearing device blinking in the dim light, clutching her cloth rabbit tightly to her chest. She looked past Damian’s broad shoulder, staring at the strange men in the hallway.
Damian didn't fire. He didn't need to.
As Viktor took a panicked step backward, a deafening crack echoed from the top of the grand staircase behind him.
Mr. Vance stood on the landing, holding a vintage double-barreled shotgun, having looped around through the service corridor to cut off their retreat. At the same moment, the red laser dots of four hidden sniper rifles—men loyal to Damian who had remained silent until the true betrayer showed his hand—appeared simultaneously across the chests of Viktor’s two armed thugs.
“Drop your weapons,” Vance commanded, his voice ringing like iron.
May you like
The two enforcers let their submachine guns clatter to the marble floor without hesitation.
Viktor sank slowly to his knees, his face gray with defeat, realizing that the empire he thought he had inherited had just closed its jaws around his neck.
