Chapter 6 - The Charity Gala of Blood
(3,500 words)
The Cleveland Museum of Art was a palace of marble, glass, and towering ice sculptures.
The elite of Cleveland’s high society mingled beneath the massive skylights, sipping champagne and laughing at jokes while violin music drifted through the air.
Josephine walked through the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She passed city councilmen, local news anchors, and prominent judges—men her father had once sworn to protect, now dining with the monsters who had killed him.
At the center of the room stood Victor Kovac.
He was an older man, thin and reptilian, with silver hair slicked back and a cruel, thin-lipped smile. He was surrounded by three heavily armed bodyguards in suits, their eyes scanning the crowd.
Josephine forced herself to breathe, walking past him toward the grand staircase. She made eye contact with a security guard, offering him a warm, disarming smile.
"Excuse me," she said, pitch-perfecting her voice to sound like a wealthy, slightly tipsy donor. "Where is the powder room?"
"Down the hall to the left, ma'am," the guard said, completely disarmed by her appearance.
"Thank you so much," she purred, walking past him.
Once out of his line of sight, she slipped behind a velvet rope marked Staff Only and hurried down the dimly lit hallway of the European Art gallery.
She found the door marked Server Room.
Using a keycard Marcus had cloned earlier, she swiped the lock. The light blinked green. She slipped inside, the hum of dozens of servers filling the cold, sterile air.
She found the main terminal, pulled the flash drive from her purse, and plugged it in.
A progress bar appeared on the screen: UPLOADING PETROV BYPASS... 10%... 30%...
"Hurry up," she whispered, watching the door.
70%... 90%... COMPLETE.
The screen flashed green, indicating that Marcus now had full control of the museum's security cameras, silent alarms, and electronic door locks.
As Josephine pulled the drive out, the door to the server room clicked open.
She spun around, her heart stopping.
Standing in the doorway was not a security guard. It was one of Kovac's top lieutenants—a scarred man named Ivan whom she recognized from the files Marcus had shown her. He had a suppressed pistol in his hand, aimed directly at her chest.
"Well, well," Ivan sneered. "The little nurse is playing spy. Victor is going to be very interested to know how Petrov's bitch got into our network."
"I'm not his bitch," Josephine said, her voice surprisingly steady.
She slipped her hand into her clutch, her fingers closing around the silver pen transmitter.
"Drop the purse," Ivan ordered, stepping into the room. "Slowly."
Josephine clicked the top of the pen.
Instantly, the lights in the server room—and the entire museum—went pitch black.
The emergency red backup lights flickered on, casting a blood-red glow over the room.
Before Ivan could fire, a shadow materialized behind him.
A massive hand closed around Ivan's throat, lifting him off the ground. Konstantin, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his black silk shirt clinging to his frame, slammed Ivan against the server rack. The sound of cracking bone echoed in the small room as Ivan slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Konstantin looked at Josephine, his blue eyes glowing in the red emergency light. "Did you get it?"
"Yes," she gasped, holding up the drive.
"Good. Now we show this city who really rules the night."
They walked out of the server room and onto the balcony overlooking the grand ballroom. Below, the crowd was in a state of mild panic due to the power outage.
Victor Kovac stood in the center of the floor, his bodyguards forming a tight circle around him. "Get the backup generators on!" he roared.
"The generators aren't coming back on, Victor," a voice echoed through the museum’s state-of-the-art sound system.
It was Konstantin's voice, pre-recorded and fed through the bypassed network.
Suddenly, the massive glass projection screens along the museum walls flickered to life. Instead of the charity's promotional video, a massive spreadsheet appeared.
It listed bank accounts, offshore trusts, and wire transfer receipts—all bearing Victor Kovac’s name, alongside the names of the Chief of Police, three city council members, and the regional director of the FBI.
Next to the names were specific dates and dollar amounts, including a nineteen-year-old entry: $150,000 to Detective Miller — David Carrigan investigation closure.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the ballroom.
"What is this?!" Victor Kovac screamed, his face turning an ugly, mottled purple. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
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"You can't turn off the truth, Victor," Konstantin’s voice boomed.
From the shadows of the museum’s upper terraces, three hundred men in black coats stepped forward, their weapons drawn, looking down at the terrified crowd.
