Chapter 6 - The Return of the King
Back at the carriage house, the flames of the incinerator cast long, writhing shadows against the brick walls. Viktor Cole kept his submachine gun locked dead on Adrian’s chest, a cruel grin spreading across his scarred face.
“Drop the iron, Adrian,” Viktor mocked, taking a half-step forward. “Let’s not make this messy. You were always better at spreadsheets than street fights.”
Adrian didn’t drop the iron poker. Instead, his eyes flicked past Viktor’s shoulder toward the dark, cavernous interior of the abandoned carriage house.
“You shouldn’t have left the transport crate unlocked, Viktor,” Adrian said softly.
Viktor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you—?”
Before he could finish the sentence, the darkness inside the carriage house exploded outward with the force of a freight train. A massive, charcoal-colored blur of muscle, teeth, and furious energy launched itself from the shadows, clearing the ground in a single titanic bound.
Bruno.
The 150-pound Neapolitan mastiff slammed into Viktor like a runaway boulder. The submachine gun flew from Viktor’s hands, clattering uselessly across the gravel as he was sent hurtling backward into the side of the brick incinerator. A sickening crunch echoed through the clearing as Viktor’s ribs shattered against the masonry, the air expelled from his lungs in a violent, ragged wheeze.
Bruno stood over him, pinning the trained assassin to the dirt with one massive paw resting squarely on Viktor’s chest. The dog’s jaws were inches from Viktor’s throat, hot breath pluming into the freezing night air, low, rumbling growls vibrating through the earth.
Marcus dropped his pitchfork. His face turned the color of ash. “That’s impossible... the tranquilizer... we gave him a triple dose!”
“He’s a mastiff, Marcus,” Adrian said, walking slowly past the pinned assassin until he stood face-to-face with his terrified chief financial officer. “They were bred to fight lions in Roman arenas. A little horse tranquilizer just made him angry.”
Marcus stumbled backward, his heel catching on a stray root, sending him sprawling flat on his back into the mud. He looked up at Adrian with wide, pleading eyes, his hands trembling violently. “Adrian... please. It was all Vivienne! She planned the whole thing! She seduced me, she forced the wire transfers—I was just following orders!”
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Adrian didn’t answer. He raised the heavy iron fireplace poker, the tip glowing dull red from the edge of the incinerator fire, and brought it down with calculated, merciless precision right beside Marcus’s ear, burying the tip an inch deep into the frozen soil.
“You’re going to help me draft some new papers, Marcus,” Adrian whispered, his voice as cold as glacial ice. “And this time, every single cent comes back.”
