Chapter 18 - The King's Wrath
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Victor Romano did not sleep. He did not eat. He became a force of pure, unchecked violence.
For forty-eight hours, the New York underworld bled. Victor unleashed his entire syndicate on the streets. Every known Russian front, every illegal casino, every shipping warehouse connected to the Volkov family was raided, burned, and dismantled.
He tortured three low-level Russian lieutenants in the basement of his compound, showing them a level of brutality that horrified even his own hardened capos.
"Where is she?" Victor snarled, his hands stained with blood, standing over a weeping Russian operative.
"The old shipyard," the operative choked out, terrified beyond reason. "Pier 44. Volkov has her there. He's waiting for you."
Victor dropped his weapon, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked at Dmitri, his eyes entirely black, completely devoid of his humanity.
"Call every man we have," Victor ordered softly. "We are going to Pier 44. I don't want a single soul breathing in that building when we are done."
Pier 44 was a massive, rusted warehouse sitting on the edge of the freezing East River.
Inside, Lena was tied to a heavy steel chair in the center of the cavernous room. Her beautiful velvet gown was torn, her face bruised from where she had fought her captors when she woke up.
Victor Volkov, a massive man with a scarred face, paced in front of her.
"He is coming," Volkov smiled cruelly, looking at his watch. "He is tearing the city apart for a waitress. It is pathetic. The great Victor Romano, brought down by a soft heart."
"He isn't going to bring you down," Lena rasped, her throat dry and raw. "He is going to erase you."
Volkov backhanded her viciously across the face. Lena’s head snapped to the side, blood pooling in her mouth, but she didn't scream. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
"We will see," Volkov sneered, drawing a heavy revolver.
Outside, the roar of massive engines shattered the silence of the docks.
Victor hadn't sent an advance team. He hadn't bothered with stealth.
Three armored SUVs slammed directly through the corrugated metal doors of the warehouse simultaneously, crushing the Russian guards stationed at the entrance. The vehicles formed a barricade inside the building, and twenty of Victor’s most lethal men poured out, opening fire immediately.
The warehouse erupted into a deafening, blinding warzone.
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Through the smoke and the strobe-light flashes of automatic gunfire, Victor Romano stepped out of the lead vehicle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He wore tactical gear, holding an assault rifle, his face a mask of terrifying, unstoppable fury.
He locked eyes with Volkov across the warehouse. The final battle had begun.
