Chapter 3 - The Dark Ballroom
Screams erupted in the pitch-black room.
The Sokolov estate was equipped with an independent power grid. A blackout wasn't an accident; it was a tactical strike.
Roman dropped low to the ground instantly, his hand drawing his weapon with practiced muscle memory.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Suppressed gunfire whispered through the darkness. The sound of glass shattering and bodies hitting the floor sent the high-society guests into a blind panic. They trampled each other, rushing toward the locked doors.
"Boss!" A voice yelled through Roman’s earpiece. It was Yuri, his second-in-command of perimeter defense. "They breached the south gate! We have heavily armed hostiles on the grounds. They’re wearing tactical gear. No insignia."
"Julian cut the power from the security room," Roman replied calmly, moving silently across the carpeted floor. "Elena’s family sent a hit squad. It’s the Rostovas."
"No, Boss," Yuri said, firing a burst of automatic fire in the background of the comms. "It’s worse. They aren't Rostovas. They’re Volkovs."
Roman froze behind a marble pillar.
The Volkov Syndicate was the largest, most brutal Russian mob faction on the East Coast. They had been trying to push into Chicago for a decade, but Roman had always kept them out.
If the Volkovs were here, that meant Elena Rostova wasn't a Rostova at all. She was a plant. A ghost.
Suddenly, emergency backup lights flickered on, bathing the ballroom in a bloody, dim red glow.
May you like
Roman looked across the room. Elena was gone.
"Yuri, hold the perimeter," Roman commanded into his comms. "Kill anyone who isn't wearing a Sokolov pin. I'm going hunting."
