Chapter 8 - The Cost of Survival
Julian was younger and faster, but Roman fought with the desperate, apocalyptic fury of a man defending everything he loved.
Even with a bullet graze in his shoulder and ribs bruised from combat, Roman was an absolute force of nature. He blocked a vicious knee strike, grabbed Julian by the collar, and slammed his skull repeatedly against the steel frame of the server rack until the metal dented.
Julian spat blood, his eyes wild. He reached into his boot, pulling a concealed ceramic blade, slashing upward across Roman’s chest.
Roman didn't even flinch. He caught Julian’s wrist mid-air, twisting it with a sickening *snap* of fracturing bone. Julian screamed as the blade clattered to the floor. Roman spun him around, locking his forearm across Julian’s throat in a lethal sleeper hold.
"Who paid you?" Roman snarled in his ear, his voice a ragged, breathless rasp. "Who in Chicago opened the gate tonight? The Casiraghis don't know the tunnel layouts. Who gave you the codes?"
Julian gasped for air, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple. He clawed at Roman’s iron forearms, his boots scraping uselessly against the broken glass.
"Tell me," Roman whispered, his grip tightening until Julian’s windpipe began to crush. "Tell me, or I swear to God I won't just kill you. I’ll burn your entire lineage out of Sicily."
Julian let out a gurgling, wet laugh. "You... you think it was... a rival?"
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
"Look closer... to home... Moretti," Julian wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "The call came... from inside the house."
Before Roman could wrench another word from him, a sharp, echoing gunshot rang out from the top of the stairs.
A high-caliber bullet tore through Julian’s skull, spraying blood and bone fragments across the shattered server glass. Julian’s body went completely limp in Roman’s arms.
Roman let the corpse drop to the floor. He spun around instantly, raising his weapon toward the stairs, shielding me behind his back once again.
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Standing at the top of the concrete landing, illuminated by the red emergency lights, was Nikolai.
In his hand was a smoking sniper rifle.
