Chapter 9 - The Wrath of Rostov
""Welcome to your execution, nephew,"" Dmitri sneered, keeping the silver revolver firmly pressed against Gemma's temple. ""Take one step closer, and I paint these crystal chandeliers with her brains. Drop to your knees, renounce your claim to the Rostov bloodline in front of the council, and I might let her live as a maid in my kitchen.""
Gemma looked at Nikolai, tears streaming down her face. ""Nikolai, don't! Don't do it! He’s going to kill us both anyway!""
Nikolai’s dark eyes locked onto Gemma’s. In that brief, silent second, all the terrifying rage melted away from his gaze, replaced by an infinite, reassuring tenderness. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips.
""Do you trust me, little neighbor?"" he asked softly, completely ignoring Dmitri's gun.
Gemma choked back a sob, but the unwavering certainty in his voice anchored her soul. ""With my life,"" she whispered.
""Good,"" Nikolai murmured. He shifted his gaze to Dmitri, his expression turning into absolute stone. ""Uncle, you spent twenty years studying how to seize an empire. But you forgot the most fundamental rule of this city: you never recruit men who owe their entire lives to someone else.""
Dmitri frowned, his finger tightening on the trigger. ""What nonsense are you—""
A deafening gunshot cracked through the ballroom.
Dmitri let out a choked gasp of agony as his right wrist shattered in an explosion of red mist, the silver revolver spinning out of his hand and clattering across the floor. Dmitri collapsed to his knees, clutching his ruined arm in disbelief.
Standing five feet behind him, his smoke-trailing handgun raised in steady hands, was Marcus.
The entire ballroom erupted into chaos. Mob bosses leapt from their chairs, reaching for weapons, but before anyone could draw, the heavy glass skylights above the ballroom shattered into a million sparkling shards. Ropes dropped from the ceiling, and thirty elite tactical operators from the Fortress, clad in black Kevlar and armed with automatic rifles, repelled into the hall, surrounding the perimeter and locking their laser sights onto every single mob boss at the table.
""Did you really think,"" Marcus said calmly, holstering his weapon and stepping around Dmitri’s writhing body, ""that I would betray the only man who pulled me out of the orphanages of Moscow? We fed you the betrayal script, Dmitri. We needed you to gather all the traitorous captains in one single room so we could prune the dead branches all at once.""
Nikolai walked slowly across the ballroom floor, his leather shoes crushing the fallen glass shards with rhythmic, terrifying crunches. He didn't even look at his uncle. He walked straight to Gemma, knelt down on one knee before her chair, and drew a sleek pocketknife from his suit jacket. With two quick, effortless slices, he cut the ropes binding her wrists and ankles.
Gemma threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder, sobbing with overwhelming relief. Nikolai wrapped his strong arms around her waist, lifting her effortlessly into his embrace, holding her against his chest as if she were the most precious treasure on earth.
""I have you,"" Nikolai whispered into her hair, his voice thick with raw emotion. ""You're safe now. No one will ever threaten you again.""
He stood up, keeping Gemma securely tucked against his side with one arm, and looked down at his bleeding uncle on the floor. Dmitri looked up, his face twisted in horror and defeat.
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""Nikolai... please... blood is thicker than water..."" Dmitri gasped.
Nikolai’s gaze was colder than the Arctic sea. ""Blood means nothing when the heart inside it is rotten, Uncle. Take him to the lower cells. The council has a new decree to sign tonight.""
