Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
Liam Gallagher spun around, firing two frantic rounds wildly into the doorway. The bullets buried themselves deep into the mahogany doorframe. Before he could squeeze the trigger a third time, a single round from Victor’s sidearm shattered Gallagher’s right wrist, sending the silver revolver spinning across the antique Persian rug.
Liam collapsed to his knees, clutching his mangled wrist, screaming in sheer agony. Blood splattered against his custom Italian shirt.
Victor stepped inside the room, completely unbothered by the violence around him. He casually kicked the fallen revolver into the far corner of the room, then walked over to the mahogany desk, picked up Liam’s half-empty bottle of vintage scotch, and poured a splash onto the Persian rug.
“Victor... wait!” Liam wheezed, his face covered in sweat and tears as he backed up against his leather armchair. “This was business! Just business! Tommy came to me! He said you were getting weak because of that little bookstore girl! He said you were soft!”
Victor set the bottle down with a deliberate, echoing clink.
“She has a name,” Victor said softly, walking over until he stood directly over the Irish mobster. “Her name is Audrey. And you put your filthy hands on her.”
Liam looked up, realizing with absolute horror that there was no negotiation, no ransom, and no territory swap that could save him. The cold, unfeeling void in Victor Russo’s eyes belonged to a demon.
“I have twenty million in offshore accounts in the Caymans,” Liam pleaded, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’ll give you the account numbers, the routing codes, everything! I’ll leave the country! You’ll never see my face again!”
Victor reached into his tactical pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object. He tossed it onto the desk beside Liam.
It was an iron branding tool, custom-made, bearing the letter ‘G’—the very instrument Liam had used in that alpine safehouse four days ago to torment Audrey.
“You liked leaving marks on helpless women,” Victor said, his tone devoid of any emotion.
Liam’s eyes widened in sheer panic as Victor picked up the branding iron and drew a tactical torch from his belt, clicking the ignition. A roaring blue flame engulfed the steel head, turning the metal into a glowing, cherry-red nightmare.
“No... no, please! Victor, don't!” Liam shrieked, pressing himself against the wall.
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“I won't kill you with this,” Victor whispered, grabbing Liam by the throat with an iron grip that cut off his air supply instantly. “I’m just returning your lost property. Before Marco hands you over to the federal authorities with every ledger you’ve ever written.”
Ten seconds later, Liam Gallagher’s horrific, agonized screams tore through the burning Lake Forest estate, echoing out into the rainy morning fog.
