Chapter 5 - The Ghost in the MachineThe metallic flash drive gleamed under the amber restaurant lights like a drop of fresh blood.
Roman didn't look at Sokolov. His dark eyes remained locked on the small blinking red light of the satellite phone. In his world, empires were built on absolute certainty, and right now, the foundation beneath his feet was fracturing into dust.
“Whose code?” Roman’s voice was dangerously calm, carrying the lethal weight of an avalanche waiting to break.
Sokolov pulled out his chair and sat down heavily, the jovial host completely gone, replaced by a ruthless syndicate boss smelling blood in the water. He pushed the flash drive across the mahogany table with the tip of his finger until it stopped against the base of Clara’s champagne glass.
“Higgins,” Sokolov spat, casting a sideways glance at Clara. “Noah Higgins. The bright-eyed little IT prodigy who supposedly vanished off the face of the earth after stealing three encrypted master keys from your main server. Only, my security team in Brooklyn just intercepted an override ping coming straight from your private container yard. And the signature? Unmistakable. Your dead ghost just woke up, Roman.”
Clara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The emerald silk gown rustled violently as she surged to her feet, knocking her chair backward with a sharp crash that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
“My brother?” Clara choked out, her voice trembling violently. She looked from Sokolov to Roman, the absolute betrayal burning in her eyes. “You told me he wasn't dead. You said he was alive! But you didn't tell me he was hunted—that you hunted him!”
“Clara, sit down,” Roman commanded, his tone snapping like a whip. He rose from his seat, his towering presence cutting off Sokolov’s line of sight.
“Don't you dare tell me to sit down!” Clara shouted, tears finally spilling over her lashes as she pointed a shaking finger at Roman’s chest. “You knew where he was all along! You used me tonight—you dragged me into this den of monsters as a prop, a fake wife, just so you could use my presence to throw Sokolov off your scent while your empire is burning down from the inside!”
Sokolov leaned back, steepling his thick fingers together, a cruel, amused smile playing on his lips. “Ah. How touching. A family reunion in the making. Tell me, Roman... does your lovely, sharp-tongued wife know that her dear brother didn't just steal data? He stole the master ledger containing every offshore account, bribe, and drug route belonging to the entire syndicate. If Noah is back in Manhattan, he didn't come to say hello. He came to finish what he started. And I have men five minutes away who will skin him alive to get it back.”
Roman’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't look at Sokolov. He looked only at Clara—at the woman who had walked into his office with a yellow raincoat, three pencils in her hair, and zero fear.
“Luca,” Roman barked, his voice cutting through the heavy air.
The heavy oak doors flew open instantly. Luca stood in the doorway, his hand already resting on the grip of his Glock, accompanied by four armed operatives in tactical gear.
“Clear the building,” Roman ordered, his eyes never leaving Clara’s face. “Get the cars ready. We are going to the docks.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Roman,” Sokolov growled, standing up as his own men unholstered their weapons with chilling synchronicity. “That flash drive stays here. And the girl stays with me. As insurance.”
Before Sokolov’s hand could even brush the weapon at his hip, Roman moved with terrifying, blinding speed. He vaulted across the mahogany table, grabbed Sokolov by the throat, and slammed him down against the heavy timber with a force that shattered the crystal glassware into a thousand sparkling shards.
A dozen guns clicked simultaneously, pointing directly at Roman’s head. But Roman didn't blink. He pressed the barrel of his own concealed pistol directly under Sokolov’s chin, his face inches from the terrified Russian mob boss.
“If any one of your men breathes too loudly,” Roman whispered, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates, “I will blow a hole through Konstantin’s skull, take the flash drive, and feed the rest of you to the rats by sunrise. Lower your weapons. Now.”
Sokolov, gasping for air against Roman’s grip, frantically waved his hand at his guards. “Lower them! Lower the damn guns!”
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Roman stepped back, straightening his jacket with icy composure. He grabbed the flash drive from the table, thrust it into Clara’s trembling hand, and grabbed her wrist.
“You wanted to find your brother, Clara?” Roman said, his dark eyes burning into hers. “Then stop crying and start running. Because the men hunting him are right behind us.”
