Chapter 4 - THE HOSTAGE IN THE STUDYThe atmosphere in the room shifted from a tense internal coup to an active war zone in less than a second.
Viktor Vance—a scarred, towering Russian warlord whom Grant thought was still licking his wounds across the eastern border—smirked broadly, pressing a hunting knife dangerously close to Claire’s trembling throat.
“Well, well, well,” Viktor mocked, his thick Russian accent cutting through the room like shattered glass. “Looks like the old dog is finally being put down. Drop the weapon, Grant. Or the maid gets a new smile from ear to ear.”
Grant didn't drop his gun. Instead, the barrel shifted smoothly, leaving Ethan’s chin and locking directly onto the center of Viktor’s forehead with terrifying speed.
“You walked into a cage, Viktor,” Grant said, his voice entirely devoid of panic. “You think my security detail let you through the gates because they love you?”
Viktor’s smile faltered slightly. He glanced toward the hallway behind him.
A sharp, metallic clatter echoed from the corridor. One by one, heavy tactical helmets rolled across the marble floor into the study. Behind them stepped Grant’s chief of security, Viktor’s own men disarmed, zip-tied, and shoved forward onto their knees.
“Your men were compromised the moment they crossed the perimeter trench,” Grant’s security chief announced coldly, leveling an assault rifle at Viktor’s chest.
Ethan’s face went completely bloodless. He had traded loyalty for a sinking ship. Viktor, realizing he had walked straight into a meticulously planned execution chamber, tried to tighten his grip on Claire.
“Don't move!” Viktor roared, pressing the blade deeper. A thin bead of crimson welled up on Claire’s neck.
Before anyone else could react, three-year-old Lily let out a sharp, piercing cry. She didn't run to her mother; instead, she reached into her pocket, pulled out the damaged brown teddy bear, and threw it with surprising force directly at Viktor’s face.
Startled by the flying object, Viktor instinctively flinched, his eyes darting downward for a split second.
That microsecond was all Grant needed.
Bang.
The deafening roar of the revolver shook the windows. The bullet missed Viktor’s head by a millimeter, shattering the crystal chandelier directly behind him and raining razor-sharp glass shards down upon his shoulders.
Before Viktor could recover, Grant lunged forward with the terrifying speed of a younger man, slamming the butt of the heavy gun directly into Viktor’s temple. The Russian warlord dropped like a felled oak tree, unconscious before he hit the carpet.
Claire slumped against the wall, gasping for air, while Lily calmly walked over, picked up her teddy bear, dusted it off, and hugged it tight.
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Grant stood over the bleeding, unconscious bodies of his enemies, his chest heaving slightly, but his eyes blazing with absolute dominance.
“Clean this trash out of my house,” Grant commanded.
