Chapter 6 - The Volkov Ultimatum
Gabriel stepped fully into the study, keeping his body positioned as a shield in front of Lucy, who peeked out from behind his shoulder with wide, fearless eyes.
“You’re trespassing, Viktor,” Gabriel said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. “And you’re sitting in a chair you haven't earned.”
Viktor chuckled, leaning back in the executive leather chair and steepling his fingers. “Earned? Gabriel, my boy, everything in this city was bought with Volkov money back when your father was still smuggling cheap whiskey across the Indiana border. Evan understood that. Evan had the vision to realize that Rowan Freight is just a front for something much bigger.”
“Evan is tied up in the basement with a broken collarbone and a murder charge,” Gabriel replied flatly.
Viktor’s eyebrows arched slightly—the first sign of genuine surprise the Bratva boss had shown all afternoon. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany desk.
“A pity. He was such a tidy administrator. But business, as they say, requires shedding dead weight.” Viktor gestured casually toward the open briefcase resting on the edge of the desk. Inside sat rows of bearer bonds and a flash drive stamped with the red emblem of the Chicago municipal transit authority. “Sign over the eastern port terminals, Gabriel. Hand me the encryption keys to the automated container cranes. Do that, and I let you, your housekeeper, and this little girl walk out of this mansion alive.”
Gabriel looked down at the briefcase, then back up at Viktor. A cold, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth—the same smile that had terrified the docks back in 2014 before he put on a tailored suit and started playing the role of a legitimate corporate tycoon.
“You think I built this empire on handshakes and paper, Viktor?” Gabriel asked softly.
“You built it on my credit,” Viktor snapped, his calm exterior cracking into ice.
“I built it on blood,” Gabriel corrected. “And I don’t negotiate with men sitting in my chair.”
Before Viktor could reach for the pistol hidden beneath the desk blotter, Gabriel didn't shoot him. Instead, he fired a single round straight into the floorboards beneath Viktor’s feet.
Crack.
The antique oak splintered instantly, revealing a glowing red LED light wired directly into the smart-home subfloor—a pressure-sensitive thermal charge wired into the mansion’s emergency methane line.
Viktor froze, his hand hovering inches from the desk drawer.
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“What is that?” Viktor hissed, his face draining of color.
“That,” Gabriel said, stepping backward toward the hallway while keeping his weapon locked on the Bratva boss, “is the house alarm. And it’s set to trip the moment my thumb leaves the encrypted remote in my pocket.”
