Chapter 3 - WHISPERS IN THE DARKNESS
The West Wing holding room was freezing.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
A single overhead bulb casting harsh yellow light.
Vivian paced back and forth like a caged panther.
Her satin gown was stained with spilled champagne.
Her hair was coming loose from its elaborate pins.
"Open this door right now!" she screamed, kicking the steel frame.
"Do you know who my father is? Do you know who pays your salaries?"
The heavy iron latch clicked.
The door swung open.
Nathaniel Rook stepped inside.
He did not look angry.
Which was infinitely worse.
He looked bored.
Like a predator inspecting a trapped insect.
"Your father is bankrupt, Vivian," Nathaniel said quietly.
He closed the door behind him.
The lock turned with a heavy thud.
Vivian stopped pacing.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
"What did you say?" she whispered.
Nathaniel pulled a slim leather folder from his jacket.
He tossed it onto the metal interrogation table.
It slid across the surface and stopped at Vivian’s feet.
"For six months, your family has embezzled from my shipping front," Nathaniel said.
"You thought my accountants wouldn't notice?"
Vivian’s knees buckled.
She caught herself against the edge of the table.
"That... that's impossible," she stammered.
"Nothing is impossible in my world," Nathaniel replied.
He stepped closer.
Taller.
Darker.
Intimidating.
"You wanted to marry into the Rook empire," Nathaniel continued.
"You wanted control of the syndicate's laundering accounts."
"Humiliating Alma was just a power play."
"Testing how much cruelty my household would tolerate."
Vivian looked up.
Her eyes were wide with sheer panic.
All pretense of elegance was gone.
"I love you, Nathaniel!" she cried out.
She reached for his lapel.
He caught her wrist mid-air.
His grip was iron.
Unbending.
"You love power," Nathaniel corrected coldly.
"And you just signed your own death warrant."
Before Vivian could scream, the lights went out.
Total darkness swallowed the room.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Not police sirens.
Syndicate alarm sirens.
Red emergency lights strobed across the concrete walls.
Nathaniel released her wrist instantly.
His hand dropped to the silenced pistol at his hip.
"What is happening?" Vivian gasped, shrinking back.
"Someone just breached the perimeter," Nathaniel muttered.
He drew the weapon with practiced ease.
"And they knew the security codes."
The heavy steel door shuddered.
A loud explosion rocked the corridor outside.
Smoke poured under the crack of the door.
Footsteps thundered outside.
Heavy boots.
Automatic weapons fire.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Bullets pierced the wooden door panels, showering wood splinters across the room.
Nathaniel shoved Vivian behind the steel table.
"Stay down," he commanded.
"Or I’ll shoot you myself."
The door hinge blew apart in a shower of sparks.
Masked men in tactical gear poured into the room.
Assault rifles raised.
Laser sights painting the walls red.
Nathaniel fired twice.
Two intruders dropped instantly.
Blood pooled on the concrete.
More poured in through the smoke.
"Rook!" a deep voice barked from the hallway.
"Hand over the girl and the ledgers!"
Nathaniel reloaded in one fluid motion.
His eyes narrowed.
He recognized that voice.
It belonged to Viktor Vance.
The head of the rival Bratva syndicate.
May you like
And someone inside the Rook estate had let him in.
Cliffhanger: Viktor stepped through the smoke, holding Alma hostage with a knife pressed against her throat, whispering, "Drop your gun, Nathaniel, or the maid dies first."
