Chapter 7 - THE COUNCIL OF TRAITORSThree men stepped through the shattered doorway, led by none other than Viktor Vance, Jared’s oldest and most trusted second-in-command for over a decade. Viktor’s hands were steady as he aimed a heavy caliber pistol straight at Jared’s chest.
"It’s over, Jared," Viktor sneered, his face twisted with years of suppressed resentment. "You went soft. You spent millions on a mutt. You brought a street rat into the inner circle and let her change the rules. The syndicate doesn't need a king who loses his edge."
Jared didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the gun. His eyes were locked on Viktor with a look of pure, concentrated venom.
"Ten years, Viktor," Jared said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "I pulled you out of a gutter in Brighton Beach. I gave you power, wealth, and an empire. And you traded it for a bullet in your future."
"Power rots if it isn't used!" Viktor shouted, cocking the hammer. "And tonight, it changes hands. Say goodbye, Jared."
Viktor’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Willa didn't scream. She didn't hesitate.
In a fraction of a second, she lunged sideways, slamming her elbow into the control panel beside the bookshelf, overriding the penthouse’s emergency lockdown protocols.
CLANG-THUD.
The heavy, steel security shutters dropped over the windows and doors with deafening speed, plunging the room into sudden, strategic darkness.
"Shoot them in the dark!" Viktor screamed in panic.
Gunfire erupted, shattering porcelain and tearing through mahogany desks. Bullets whined through the air, but Jared was already moving. In the pitch black, he was a ghost. A suppressed shot cracked—once, twice. One of Viktor’s guards dropped with a heavy thud.
Willa ducked behind a marble pillar, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her hands were steady. She reached into the desk drawer where Jared kept a backup compact pistol, pulling it out with practiced ease.
She had learned a lot in three weeks under Jared’s roof.
Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed Willa by the shoulder from behind, yanking her out of cover. It was the third traitor, smelling of cheap cologne and sweat, pressing a knife blade against her throat.
"Drop your weapon, Kensington!" the traitor roared into the darkness, holding Willa as a human shield. "Or the girl gets her throat opened right now!"
The gunfire stopped.
The penthouse fell into a suffocating, lethal silence.
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Jared stepped out from the shadows near the bookcase. The red emergency indicator lights cast long, demonic shadows across his face. He looked at the knife pressed against Willa’s neck, and for the first time since Willa had met him, his eyes flickered with a raw, unadulterated terror.
Not for himself. For her.
