Chapter 3 - The Ultimatum at the Warehouse
An hour later, the black Maybach convoy rolled through the heavily industrial and poorly lit streets of the port district, stopping directly in front of a sprawling, unmarked brick warehouse where Anton Petrov ran his illicit loan-sharking and gambling operations.
Vincent stepped out of the vehicle into the damp night air, his expression set in stone. Aleandro and four heavily armed enforcers flanked him as they marched straight up to the reinforced steel sliding doors of the warehouse.
Two Russian guards standing outside with automatic rifles raised their weapons instantly, shouting in harsh Russian.
"Hold your fire!" one of them yelled, recognizing Vincent. "Costa, you can't just—"
Aleandro didn't even break stride. He stepped forward with blinding speed, striking the first guard across the throat with the butt of his pistol and sweeping the second's legs out from under him before either man could pull a trigger. Both guards hit the concrete unconscious in a crumpled heap.
Vincent kicked the heavy steel door open with a resounding crash that rattled the corrugated metal walls of the entire warehouse.
Inside, a dozen men looked up from card tables and stacks of counterfeit cash, their eyes going wide with sheer horror as the Costa syndicate stormed their primary headquarters.
Anton Petrov himself stepped out from an elevated office overlooking the main floor, his face red with fury as he clutched a thick cigar in his hand.
"Costa! Have you lost your damn mind?" Anton bellowed, marching down the metal staircase. "Breaking into my facility like this? You think because you rule the city you can just walk in and—"
"Shut your mouth, Anton," Vincent interrupted, his voice cutting through the noise of the warehouse like a butcher's knife.
Vincent walked straight toward the base of the staircase, his hands resting casually inside his trouser pockets, projecting an aura of lethal dominance that made even the seasoned Russian gangsters step backward.
"Your nephew Viktor decided to play a very dangerous game," Vincent said, his eyes locking onto the older mob boss. "He laid hands on a young woman who works under my roof. He thought he could bully an orphan girl trying to pay her way through college."
Anton scoffed, trying to maintain a facade of tough indifference. "A maid? You came here and broke my guards’ noses over a hired maid? Are you out of your mind, Vincent? She's nobody!"
In a flash of motion, Vincent drew his Glock 19 and fired a single round directly into the floorboards an inch away from Anton’s leather boots. The deafening roar of the gunshot echoed off the tin roof, and Anton flinched violently, his face turning ghostly pale.
"She is my maid," Vincent corrected, his voice dropping an octave lower, heavy with a menacing finality. "Which means anyone who touches her touches me. And anyone who touches me answers to the barrel of a gun."
Anton swallowed hard, his bravado completely dissolving under the terrifying weight of Vincent’s gaze. He knew he was outmatched, outgunned, and completely exposed.
"What do you want, Vincent?" Anton asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Name your price. We'll write off the debt. We'll leave the girl alone. Just name it."
"The price is simple," Vincent replied smoothly, holstering his weapon. "First, you and your entire crew pack your bags and clear out of this district by midnight. If I see a single Petrov operative within city limits tomorrow, I won't just break your noses; I'll wipe your entire organization off the map."
Anton’s eyes bulged. "You're banishing us? After all these years of paying tribute?"
"You had a monopoly on violence, Anton, and you used it on a nineteen-year-old girl with bruised knuckles and a dream," Vincent said coldly. "Consider yourself lucky you're walking out of here breathing."
May you like
Vincent turned his back on the stunned Russian boss, signaling to Aleandro and his men.
"Let's go home," Vincent said. "We have a house to clean."
