Chapter 4 - The Trigger and the Truth
Viktor froze, his hand hovering inches from his holster. The guards pressed flat against the stone walls, trapped by the geometry of the narrow hallway. A single wrong move, and the most feared man in Chicago would bleed out on the floor of his own wedding estate.
Elena’s hand shook slightly, but her finger remained locked hard against the trigger.
"You think you're untouchable, don't you?" Elena sneered, her breath hot against Roman’s lapel. "You think because you rule the boardrooms and the streets that nobody can touch you. But you're just a man, Roman. A arrogant, blind man who trusted a whore in a white dress."
Roman didn't look down at the gun barrel pressed against his ribs. He looked straight into Elena’s dilated, manic eyes.
"You underestimate my security protocols, Elena," Roman said, his voice entirely devoid of fear.
"Shut up!" she screamed, pressing the steel harder into his chest. "There’s no one coming! The guards are pinned, the communications are jammed, and—"
Click.
It wasn't the sound of a gun cocking. It was the sharp, metallic snap of a security shutter dropping over the corridor windows at the far end of the hall.
Elena blinked in confusion. She glanced over her shoulder for a fraction of a second—just long enough for a professional predator to strike.
In that microsecond of distraction, Roman moved.
It was a blur of motion. His left hand shot out like a striking viper, clamping around Elena’s wrist with bone-crushing force and twisting it upward. A sharp crack echoed through the hallway as the pistol slipped from her paralyzed fingers and clattered against the stone floor.
Before she could scream, Roman’s right arm swept around her waist, slamming her back against the reinforced concrete wall with enough force to knock the wind completely out of her lungs.
The Walther skidded across the floor and stopped right at Maya’s feet.
Elena slumped against the wall, gasping for air, her bridal veil tearing loose from her hair and fluttering down like a broken wing.
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"Viktor," Roman commanded, shaking out his leather glove as if he had just flicked away a speck of dust. "Call the federal prosecutor. Tell him we have a confession to corporate espionage, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason against the state."
"Right away, Boss," Viktor replied, stepping forward with heavy steel zip-ties.
