Chapter 8 - Whispers in the Dark
Hours later, the sun had fully risen, casting a pale, cold golden light over the blood-stained gravel of the driveway. Inside the estate, the deadbolts were thrown, the shattered windows were boarded up with heavy plywood, and the staff was quietly scrubbing the marble floors.
Down in the subterranean horse stables—now repurposed as a secure holding facility—the air smelled of hay, dust, and drying sweat.
Nathan Cross sat tied to a heavy wooden support post, his shoulder crudely bandaged, shivering violently from blood loss and the creeping winter chill. Across from him, Viktor was slumped against the brick wall, a dark bruise swelling over his eye.
The heavy iron door swung open, and Dominic stepped into the stables. He walked slowly, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor, stopping right between them.
"You miscalculated, Nathan," Dominic said quietly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one with a silver Zippo. He took a slow drag, blowing a thin cloud of gray smoke toward the ceiling. "You thought because I was out of town, the house was empty. You thought my loyalty was a weakness."
Nathan lifted his head, his face pale, spitting a drop of blood onto the straw. "You can't keep us here forever, Dom. The federal authorities know I was auditing your books. If I don't check in with my contacts in Washington by tonight, federal agents will raid this estate with a warrant that even your judges can't block."
Dominic smiled—a cold, humorless expression. "Let them come. They’ll find empty ledgers, dead Russians, and a traitor bleeding out in a horse stable. By the time they sort through the wreckage, you and your federal contacts will be rotting at the bottom of the Hudson River."
Viktor let out a raspy, blood-flecked laugh from the corner. "You think you won, Vale? The Bratva has a hundred men ready to take my place. You can't kill us all."
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Dominic turned his gaze to the Russian, taking one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it onto the straw and crushing it beneath his boot heel.
"I don't need to kill a hundred men," Dominic said softly, leaning down until his face was inches from Viktor's. "I just need to make sure the ones who survived understand whose name is carved into these stones."
