Chapter 8 - The Inner SanctumThe heavy mahogany double doors of the manor house gave way with a single well-placed kick from Mara’s heavy work boot.
The interior was a museum of stolen wealth—crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, and marble columns that gleamed under the soft, indirect lighting. But it was entirely deserted. The staff had been cleared out, and Dominic Vance’s personal security detail was concentrated in the rear courtyard.
"This way," Roman muttered, swinging his body forward on the crutches with rhythmic, military precision. His face was beaded with cold sweat, his knuckles white around the rubber grips, but his momentum was relentless.
They navigated down the grand hallway toward the private study—the inner sanctum where Roman had once ruled his empire, and where Dominic Vance now sat in his chair.
As they reached the heavy oak door of the study, it swung open.
Dominic Vance stood framed in the doorway. He was wearing an Italian-tailored charcoal suit, a glass of amber bourbon in his hand, a smug, triumphant smile plastered across his face. Behind him, two armed enforcers stood ready with submachine guns.
"Well, look what the snow dragged in," Dominic laughed, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. "I told Julian that ditch was too shallow for a man of your reputation, Roman. I should have used concrete."
Roman stopped, planting his crutches firmly on the Persian rug. He didn't raise his pistol yet. He just looked at the man he had saved from the gutters of Troy—the man he had trusted like a brother.
"You always were a bad accountant, Dominic," Roman said, his voice echoing smoothly through the cavernous hall. "You took over the books, but you forgot the golden rule of running Albany."
Dominic’s smile faltered slightly. "And what’s that?"
"Never steal from a man who has nothing left to lose."
Before Dominic could gesture to his guards, a massive black blur came flying down the grand staircase from the second-floor gallery.
Bear hit the first enforcer like a freight train, knocking him backward over the mahogany banister into the foyer below with a bone-crunching crash.
The second guard swung his submachine gun toward the dog—
BOOM.
Mara’s shotgun roared, the double-barrel blast catching the second guard square in the chest and sending him flying through the study's glass display case.
Dominic Vance dropped his glass of bourbon, the amber liquid shattering across the floor like blood. Panic flashed across his face as he scrambled backward toward his mahogany desk, reaching frantically for a golden revolver in the top drawer.
Roman swung forward on his crutches, closing the distance in three powerful bounds. Before Dominic’s fingers could touch the grip of the gun, Roman’s steel crutch came down with crushing force across the lawyer's wrist, pinning his hand to the wood with a sharp, agonizing snap.
Dominic screamed, collapsing to his knees, clutching his broken wrist against his chest.
May you like
Roman stood over him, breathing heavily, his amber eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fire.
"The safe, Dominic," Roman whispered, pointing the muzzle of his 9mm directly between Vance's eyes. "Open it. And let’s hear what my brother really said before you put him in the river."
