Chapter 2 - The Lockdown
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The air in the ballroom grew thick, suffocating with the scent of expensive perfume and raw, unfiltered terror. No one moved. The elite of New York City, people accustomed to barking orders and expecting immediate obedience, were suddenly reminded who truly owned the shadows they danced in.
"Check the trash can in the east service corridor," Victor commanded.
Two men in dark suits detached themselves from the perimeter and sprinted through the velvet-lined archways.
Leon took a step backward, his polished shoes squeaking against the marble. "Victor, be reasonable. We grew up together. You’re going to take the word of a minimum-wage waitress over your own underboss?"
"I take the word of the bitter almond scent on the floor," Victor said coldly. "A scent you conveniently missed while handing me the glass."
"It could have been the catering company," Leon stammered, his eyes darting toward the locked exit doors. "It could have been the kitchen staff."
"It could have been," Victor agreed smoothly. "But it wasn't."
Clara stepped forward, her hand reaching out to touch Victor’s arm. "Darling, please. People are watching. The press is outside. Let security handle this in the back."
Victor looked down at her hand resting on his sleeve, then slowly lifted his gaze to her perfectly contoured face. Clara’s father was the head of the Whitmore shipping empire. The engagement was a strategic alliance, a merger of old money and organized muscle.
"Security is handling it, Clara," Victor said, gently but firmly removing her hand.
The two guards returned from the service corridor. One of them held up a small, clear plastic evidence bag. Inside rested a tiny, crushed glass vial.
"Found it exactly where she said it would be, Boss," the guard reported.
Leon didn't wait for another word. He turned and bolted.
He didn't make it three steps.
Dmitri let go of Lena’s arm and moved with terrifying, explosive speed. He tackled Leon to the marble floor, driving a heavy knee into the traitor’s spine. Leon screamed, the sound echoing violently through the silent ballroom.
Lena gasped, pressing her back against the nearest table, her hands covering her mouth. She had wanted to save a man’s life, not witness an execution.
"Take him to the basement," Victor ordered, straightening his suit jacket as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "I will deal with him shortly."
Dmitri hauled the weeping, thrashing underboss away.
Victor turned back to the crowd, his voice projecting calm authority. "The hotel is secure. My apologies for the interruption. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening."
The musicians, terrified, immediately began playing a frantic waltz.
May you like
Victor didn't stay to watch the performance. He turned his dark, predatory gaze back to Lena.
"You," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Come with me."
