Chapter 7 - THE TRAITOR UNMASKEDThe east tower panic room was a fortress within a fortress—steel-reinforced walls, independent air filtration, and a direct communications relay to the Volkov private airstrip.
Alexei slammed the heavy blast door shut, locking the digital deadbolts before collapsing into a leather armchair. His breathing was shallow, sweat beading on his forehead from blood loss.
Victoria rushed to the medical cabinet mounted on the wall, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, and a surgical suture kit.
"Hold still," she instructed, kneeling beside him.
"You have steady hands for a diner waitress," Alexei muttered, wincing as the antiseptic touched his torn flesh.
"I learned how to stitch cuts from a grandfather who worked in a slaughterhouse," Victoria replied coldly, her focus absolute as she threaded the needle. "And don't ever underestimate me again, Volkov."
As she pulled the first stitch tight, the heavy iron door of the panic room emitted a low, electronic chime.
ACCESS GRANTED.
Victoria froze. Her hands hovered over Alexei’s wound.
Alexei’s eyes snapped open. He didn't reach for his gun—he already knew it was empty. Instead, he smiled a cold, bloody smile.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Standing in the doorway, holding a silenced submachine gun with absolute professional ease, was Marta—the trembling, quiet maid who had served Victoria tea for the past week.
Her posture was completely transformed. No longer timid or hunchbacked, she stood straight, her eyes cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of fear.
"Well, well, well," Marta said, her voice smooth and devoid of any stutter. "The great Alexei Volkov, brought down by a diner girl with a sewing kit."
Victoria stood up slowly, stepping in front of Alexei’s chair. "Marta? You... you poisoned my tea on the first day."
"I drugged you, yes," Marta corrected with a faint smirk. "Carol was easy to manipulate, but you, Victoria... you were always the wild card. Mr. Volkov thought he outsmarted everyone by buying your debts. But he forgot that information is the most valuable currency in the underworld."
"Who is paying you, Marta?" Alexei demanded, his voice dangerously low despite his injury. "Dmitri? Or the Syndicate council?"
"Does it matter?" Marta raised the barrel of her gun, leveling it directly at Victoria’s chest. "Step aside, Mrs. Volkov. The council wants the girl and the journal. You can bleed out here in peace, Alexei."
Victoria’s heart hammered, but her mind was racing. She didn't look at the gun barrel. She looked at Marta’s finger on the trigger—and the heavy bronze statue sitting on the mahogany desk just two feet to her left.
"You talk too much," Victoria said, her voice deceptively calm.
Marta frowned. "What?"
In one lightning-fast motion, Victoria grabbed the bronze statue and hurled it straight at Marta’s face, simultaneously dropping to the floor.
CRACK!
The heavy bronze caught Marta square in the temple. The maid stumbled backward, her weapon discharging harmlessly into the ceiling as she collapsed unconscious onto the oriental rug.
Silence descended on the panic room once more.
Victoria exhaled a breath she felt like she had been holding for her entire twenty-one years of life. She stood up, brushing off her ruined dress, and looked down at Alexei.
May you like
Alexei stared at her, a profound, disbelieving look of pure awe in his winter-blue eyes.
"Remind me," Alexei rasped, a genuine smile finally breaking across his face, "never to tick you off again."
