Chapter 6 - Blood on the Snow
“You touch me,” I said coldly, backing away toward the wooden crates, “and Roman Vale will burn every asset you own to the ground before breakfast.”
Vance laughed—a grating, ugly sound that rattled off the metal siding. “Roman Vale is on the fortieth floor surrounded by sixty board members. By the time he realizes you’re gone, your signature will be notarized, and you’ll have suffered a tragic accident on the icy roads of South Chicago.”
He nodded to the two men behind him. “Grab her.”
Before the first man took two paces, the rear industrial garage door shattered inward with an apocalyptic roar.
A black SUV tore through the metal roll-up gate, throwing sheets of twisted iron and shattered glass into the air. The tires screeched across the slick concrete floor, swinging sideways to form an impenetrable barrier between me and Vance’s men.
The driver’s door flew open before the vehicle had even completely stopped.
Roman Vale stepped out.
He didn't have his overcoat. He wore only his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, his jaw rigid with a cold, terrifying ferocity I had never witnessed in a human being. In his right hand, held with complete, lethal familiarity, was a heavy semi-automatic handgun.
“Step away from her,” Roman said. His voice was not loud. It was a dead flat line that cut through the roaring wind outside.
Vance stumbled backward, his arrogance vanishing in a heartbeat. “Vale! How the hell did you—”
“You tracked her phone,” Roman said, advancing one deliberate step at a time. “You forgot that every Mercer vehicle, every phone account, and every building under her father's name routes through my private servers. I knew you contacted her before she even left the curb.”
One of Vance’s men reached toward his coat.
Roman fired once.
The round took the man clean through the shoulder, the concussive blast deafening in the enclosed space. The man collapsed onto the concrete with a howl of agony, clutching his arm as blood seeped through his fingers onto the dirty floor.
The second guard froze, raising his empty hands into the air, trembling.
“Drop your weapons and face the wall,” Roman ordered, not taking his eyes off Vance for a single second. The remaining guard complied instantly, pressing his forehead against the rusted metal shelving.
Roman moved forward until the barrel of the gun was resting directly against Julian Vance’s forehead. Vance whimpered, his knees shaking violently under his tailored trousers.
“You wanted Mercer Holdings, Julian?” Roman whispered, his pale gray eyes dead and empty of mercy. “You wanted Conrad’s daughter?”
“Roman, please—it was business, just business—”
“You took her to an empty lot,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register. “That stopped being business the second she walked through that door.”
“Roman!” I called out, my voice cracking through the ringing in my ears. I scrambled forward, grabbing his forearm with both hands. His muscle felt like carved stone beneath my fingers. “Don't. Don't kill him. Not for this.”
Roman looked down at me. The absolute darkness in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by an agonizing intensity that took my breath away. He lowered the weapon, though his thumb remained resting against the safety.
“Give me the pen, Julian,” Roman commanded.
Vance fumbled through his coat and handed over a silver pen with shaking fingers. Roman tossed it onto the concrete and pulled a folded sheet from his back pocket—an unconditional transfer of Vance’s remaining corporate holdings to the city's municipal fund, stripping him of every scrap of power he possessed.
May you like
“Sign it,” Roman said. “And take the six o’clock flight to Zurich. If your feet touch American soil after tomorrow morning, I won't use a gun.”
Ten minutes later, Vance and his wounded guard were gone into the freezing night, leaving behind a ruined empire and a trail of blood in the snow.
