Chapter 4 - THE ENFORCER IN THE STUDY
The cold, black muzzle of Viktor’s silenced pistol seemed to expand until it filled the entire room.
My breath caught in my throat. I instinctively took a half-step backward, my hip bumping against the heavy mahogany desk, trapping me between the furniture and the hidden wall alcove.
Next to me, seventy-eight-year-old Margaret Whitaker didn't flinch.
Instead, the elderly woman squared her shoulders, stepped slightly in front of me, and gripped her wooden cane with both hands like a weapon.
"You're a coward, Viktor," Margaret said, her voice steady, echoing with a lifetime of quiet authority. "You think killing an old woman and a housemaid in Vincent's study will save Raymond? Gabriel is downstairs. He knows the truth."
Viktor’s scarred face remained entirely expressionless.
"Mr. Romano is currently occupied downstairs with some unexpected visitors," Viktor replied smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step into the room. "And by the time he finishes dealing with them, this house will be cleared out, and you two will have tragically succumbed to a gas leak."
My mind raced. Gas leak. They weren't just going to shoot us; they were going to burn the entire estate to the ground to erase every shred of evidence in the blue suitcase.
"You won't get away with this," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "Gabriel owns this city. The moment he finds out—"
"Gabriel is a boy playing at being a king," Viktor interrupted, raising the pistol slightly, aligning the sight with my forehead. "And Raymond is about to take back his crown. Hands where I can see them, girl. Pick up the blue suitcase."
I didn't move. My fingers brushed against the leather binder labeled TRUTH — 2003 resting on the desk beside the open suitcase.
If Viktor took the suitcase, Gabriel would never know where his mother was buried. He would never have the proof to put Raymond away legally.
Think, Claire. Think.
"Viktor!" Margaret suddenly cried out, her voice cracking with a theatrical desperation that caught the enforcer off guard. She clutched her chest and stumbled backward, collapsing heavily into Vincent's high-backed leather desk chair. "My heart... I can't breathe..."
Viktor’s eyes flicked toward Margaret for a split second, his tactical instincts momentarily dividing his attention between us.
That single second was all I needed.
With a surge of adrenaline, I swept my arm across the desk, grabbing the heavy leather binder and hurling it directly into Viktor’s face.
Thwack.
The thick binder struck him squarely across the bridge of his nose. Viktor staggered backward, swearing loudly, his finger twitching on the trigger.
Pfft.
A silenced bullet tore through the air, embedding itself deep into the mahogany wainscoting inches above my left shoulder with a sharp pop.
I didn't wait to see what he would do next. I lunged to the side, grabbing the blue canvas suitcase off the desk by its leather handles.
"Run, Claire!" Margaret shouted from the chair, her fake heart attack instantly replaced by fierce determination.
I bolted toward the side door of the study—a secondary, private staircase used by the household staff to move between floors without disturbing the family.
"Get back here!" Viktor roared, recovering his balance and lunging across the room.
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I threw myself through the wooden door just as another silenced bullet splintered the doorframe, slammed the latch shut, and threw the heavy brass deadbolt from the inside.
I was on the back service stairs, plunging down into darkness, the blue suitcase clutched tightly to my chest like a shield.
