Chapter 8 - Clearing the Ledger
The element of surprise, combined with absolute panic in the dark, turned the warehouse into a shooting gallery where Victor’s men had no idea who or what they were fighting.
Before the backup generators could kick in, three more of Victor’s thugs had rushed blindly toward the sound of the commotion, only to be neutralized by well-placed rifle butts and tactical sweeps.
By the time the emergency backup lights flickered on, bathing the warehouse in a sickly yellow glow, Victor Vance was standing entirely alone in the center of the room, panting heavily, holding a pistol that was shaking in his grip.
And Roman?
With a surge of sheer, adrenaline-fueled strength, Roman had snapped the rotted wooden restraints binding his chair, shattering the bindings as if they were made of paper. He stood up, towering over Victor like an avenging angel, his knuckles bruised, his eyes blazing with cold, merciless fury.
Victor slowly turned his head, looking from the unconscious thugs scattered across the floor to me—standing ten feet away with a smoking hunting rifle—and finally back to Roman.
“You’re... you’re out of your mind,” Victor whispered, his face draining of color. “Both of you.”
Roman didn't say a word. He crossed the concrete floor in three massive strides, closed his fist, and delivered a devastating right hook straight to Victor’s jaw that lifted the syndicate captain off his feet and dumped him unconscious onto the floor.
Silence rushed back into the warehouse, broken only by the hum of the dying electrical transformer.
I lowered the rifle, exhaling a long, shaky breath as my knees suddenly turned to jelly. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind the cold realization of what I had just done.
Roman was across the room in a flash. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me against his chest so hard I could feel the frantic pounding of his heart.
“Are you insane?!” he demanded, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying vulnerability I had never heard before. “What were you thinking coming here?! You could have been killed!”
“I was thinking,” I snapped back, tears of delayed shock prickling my eyes as I shoved his chest, “that my boyfriend was tied to a chair by an idiot with an iron pipe, and I had a very efficient rifle in my basement!”
Roman froze.
The word hung in the air between us.
Boyfriend.
A slow, disbelieving, incredibly fond smile broke across his bloodied face. He pulled me back into his arms, burying his face in my hair, holding me as if he never intended to let go.
“My girlfriend,” he murmured against my ear, “is officially terrifying.”
May you like
“You have no idea,” I whispered, melting into his embrace.
Outside, the heavy rumble of approaching sirens—the private, loyal kind belonging to Roman’s inner circle—echoed across the desolate Chicago docks, coming to clean up the mess and ensure that Victor Vance and his men would never trouble the city again.
