Chapter 9 - THE MAJESTIC THEATREThe historic Majestic Theatre was dark, empty, and dead silent when my Maybach screeched to a halt outside the stage doors. The marquee flickered with the ghostly neon letters of a sold-out Broadway production.
I didn't wait for Mateo. I kicked the stage door open, my Beretta raised, stepping into the cavernous backstage labyrinth of props, ropes, and hanging velvet curtains.
"Clara!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the dark rafters.
No answer. Only the dripping of a leaky pipe somewhere in the wings.
I sprinted down the familiar corridor leading to the dressing rooms. The door to Clara’s private dressing room was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling out onto the checkerboard floor.
I raised my gun, kicked the door wide open, and stepped inside.
Clara was sitting calmly at her vanity mirror, brushing her dark hair. Standing behind her, holding a silver-handled straight razor dangerously close to her throat, was a massive man with pale skin, cold dead eyes, and a Russian tattoo snaking up his scarred neck.
Nikolai Rostov.
"Ah," Nikolai purred in his gravelly voice, pressing the razor a fraction of an inch closer to Clara’s pale skin. "The fierce Mafia boss arrives right on cue. Like a loyal dog running to his master's call."
Clara didn't look scared. In fact, her eyes met mine in the vanity mirror, flashing with a sharp, hidden signal. Look at the floor.
I dropped my gaze for a split second. Resting casually on the makeup table right beside her elbow was her sewing kit—and protruding from the velvet pouch was the steel handle of her concealed garrote wire.
"Let her go, Nikolai," I said, keeping my voice level, pouring every ounce of lethal menace I possessed into the small room. "You want me? Take me. Leave her out of this."
Nikolai laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "You took my most profitable pipeline in New York, Moretti. Taking your wife is just a fair trade of collateral. Now, drop your weapon on the floor, kick it over here, or I paint this mirror with her blood."
My finger tightened on the trigger of my Beretta. I could make the shot. But at this distance, even a millimeter of error...
Before I could calculate the angle, Clara moved.
With blinding, explosive speed, she didn't cower; she slammed her head backward hard into Nikolai’s nose with a sickening crack, instantly driving her elbow backward into his ribs while her hands whipped the steel garrote wire out of the sewing kit and looped it tightly around his thick neck in a single, fluid motion.
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Nikolai choked out a gurgling shriek, dropping the razor as he grabbed frantically at the wire cutting into his windpipe.
"You really should have checked my background, Rostov," Clara whispered into his ear, her voice colder than death as she twisted the wire tighter. "I deal with prima donnas every single day. You’re just amateur hour."
