Chapter 14 - The Saint Lawrence ShowdownThe warehouse was a massive, corrugated-steel structure illuminated by harsh halogen floodlights that cut through the blinding snow. Inside, crates were stacked twenty feet high, filled with contraband waiting to be loaded onto midnight freight trucks.
We breached the side loading door with a quiet, synchronized charge.
Before Viktor Rostov’s guards even realized they were compromised, my enforcers had neutralized the perimeter guards without a single shot being fired. We moved through the labyrinth of crates like ghosts in the dark.
I kicked open the heavy metal door to the second-floor foreman’s office.
Viktor Rostov—a towering brute with a scarred jaw and cold, dead eyes—was sitting behind a metal desk, counting bundles of cash. He looked up, startled, as the door slammed against the wall.
"What the—" Viktor reached for the submachine gun resting across his lap.
I didn't give him the chance. I drew my sidearm and fired a single round through the wood of the desk, inches from his fingers. The deafening crack echoed through the office like thunder.
Viktor froze, his hands hovering over the gun, his face draining of color.
"Roman Moretti," Viktor choked out, recognizing me instantly from the Chicago syndicates. "I thought you retired to play suburban babysitter."
I walked slowly across the room, stepping over scattered ledgers, until I stood directly over his desk. I pressed the barrel of my gun against the metal surface, right beneath his nose.
"Retirement is a state of mind, Viktor," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And you're disturbing my peace."
"You can't take this territory!" Viktor sneered, trying to mask his terror with bravado. "The Commission backed me! The northern routes belong to—"
"The Commission answers to the table," I interrupted, leaning forward. "And right now, I am the table."
Downstairs, the rest of Viktor’s men surrendered as Vance and our enforcers swept through the lower level, zip-tying them one by one.
I looked down at Viktor, who was sweating profusely despite the freezing temperature in the uninsulated office.
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"Here is how this works," I told him quietly. "You pack your bags, you take your loyalists, and you get out of North America before sunrise. If I ever see your face, hear your name, or catch a whiff of your operation anywhere near my borders again, I won't just kill you. I’ll erase your entire lineage from the history books."
Viktor swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "I—I understand. We're gone. Tonight."
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