Chapter 8 - Midnight at the Rossi Gallery
The streets of Providence were slick with a cold autumn drizzle as Kalin’s unmarked black van pulled into the service alley behind the Rossi Gallery. The grand old building stood dark and imposing against the night sky, its security lights flickering ominously.
Inside, the atmosphere was dead silent.
Kalin moved through the gallery corridors like a ghost, his hand resting reassuringly near the holster concealed beneath his tailored jacket. Behind him, two of his most trusted operatives flanked me, their weapons drawn and ready.
We reached the main restoration lab on the third floor.
The heavy oak doors were splintered wide open. Glass display cases were smashed, shards sparkling under the emergency red exit lights. And standing in the center of the room, surrounded by three armed enforcers, was Viktor Vance—a heavy-set man with cold, cruel eyes and a silver-handled cane.
"Kovatch," Vance purred, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend. "Or should I say, Moretti. I was wondering when the king of Hallowmere would crawl out of his stone fortress."
Kalin stepped forward into the center of the lab, his posture relaxed yet radiating lethal coiled energy. "You're trespassing, Vance. And you're standing in a room you have no business destroying."
"Art is subjective, Kalin," Vance smiled, gesturing toward my ruined workstation. "And debt collection is absolute. Where is the card?"
Kalin slid his hand into his pocket, withdrawing the micro-SD card and holding it up between two fingers. "Right here. But before I hand it over, let my people clear the hostages you locked in the basement archive."
Vance chuckled, signaling to one of his goofs. "Generous to the end. Do it."
As one of the guards moved toward the stairwell to unlock the basement, I caught Kalin’s eye. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The trap was set.
"Hand it over, Kovatch," Vance demanded, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.
Kalin tossed the card across the polished wooden floor.
Vance’s enforcer scrambled down to pick it up, sliding it into a portable decryption laptop resting on a nearby table. "Boss, it's authentic! The encryption codes are live!"
Vance’s face lit up with greedy triumph. "Finally. The ports belong to us—"
CLANG!
The heavy fire escape doors at the back of the lab blew inward with a deafening crash. Before Vance’s men could even raise their weapons, half a dozen of Moretti’s tactical operatives swarmed the room, moving with ruthless, military precision.
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Weapons were disarmed, men were pinned to the floor, and before Vance could lift his cane, Kalin had him slammed hard against the restored mahogany shelving unit, a cold Beretta pressed flat against his jawline.
"The audit is closed, Viktor," Kalin whispered, his voice colder than the winter wind off the Atlantic.
