Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
For three agonizing seconds, the world stopped spinning.
The name written on page three of Constantine’s ledger—Viktor Vance—was not just an alias. It was the name of the ruthless syndicate enforcer who had hunted my father across three continents before finally silencing him in a quiet alleyway in the south of France. My father had spent his final months desperately trying to expose a massive international conspiracy involving stolen state assets and high-level political corruption. He thought he had hidden his research safely.
Instead, it had ended up in the hands of monsters like Constantine Volkov.
My hands trembled violently. The leather journal slipped slightly in my grip, the pages fluttering.
Dominic Russo’s sharp eyes caught the sudden shift in my demeanor. Nothing escaped his notice. His gaze flicked from my pale, horrified face down to the page I was staring at.
"What did you see?" Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silken register. "Whose name is on that page?"
Before I could answer, Constantine exploded into motion.
With a terrifying speed that defied his bulky frame, Constantine stood up, overturning his heavy mahogany chair. His right hand plunged deep inside his jacket, wrapping around the grip of a suppressed automatic pistol.
"Kill her!" Constantine roared, his face contorted in absolute panic. "She knows too much! Kill everyone in the room!"
Chaos erupted in a fraction of a second.
Constantine’s two personal bodyguards, standing by the far wall, drew their weapons and raised them toward Dominic and me.
But Dominic Russo was not a kingpin who survived decades at the top by being slow. Even as Constantine shouted his order, Dominic’s hand swept under the heavy oak table with blinding speed. He emerged with a customized nickel-plated SIG Sauer, leveling it with absolute, cold-blooded precision.
Bang! Bang!
Two deafening gunshots echoed inside the enclosed Sapphire Dining Room, shattering the opulent silence.
The heavy glass water pitcher on the side table exploded into a million shimmering shards. Constantine’s lead bodyguard spun backward, slamming violently against the wood-paneled wall before sliding down into a crimson pool on the plush Persian rug.
Dominic’s second bodyguard, a hulking wall of muscle named Marcus, drew his own weapon with lightning reflexes, returning fire. Bullets chewed through the mahogany molding and shattered the crystal overhead, raining sparkling glass down over the table.
"Get down!" Marcus roared, lunging forward to shove me behind a heavy velvet pillar.
I hit the floor hard, clutching the leather journal tightly to my chest like a shield. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I felt sick. Gunpowder filled the air, thick, acrid, and choking.
Across the room, Constantine scrambled backward toward the private emergency exit, his pistol barking blindly into the smoke. One of his bullets clipped the edge of Dominic’s chair, splintering the leather upholstery.
"You think you can walk out of my club with my book, Volkov?" Dominic’s voice cut through the gunfire, completely calm, devoid of fear, dripping with lethal intent.
Dominic advanced steadily behind the cover of the heavy dining table, firing with deadly accuracy. Another shot struck Constantine’s remaining bodyguard in the shoulder, sending his weapon clattering across the floor.
Constantine, realizing he was outmatched, trapped, and entirely exposed, wrenched open the heavy steel emergency exit door.
"This isn't over, Russo!" Constantine screamed over the din of gunfire, his face twisted in rage and terror. "That girl has signed her own death warrant! She knows the master key to the entire syndicate network!"
With a slam of heavy steel, Constantine bolted out into the alleyway, disappearing into the rainy New York night.
Silence descended on the Sapphire Dining Room once more, broken only by the hiss of the shattered air vents and the groans of the wounded men bleeding out on the floor.
Marcus lowered his smoking gun, scanning the room for secondary threats.
Slowly, Dominic Russo stepped out from behind the table. His suit was immaculate, untouched by the violence. He walked over to the pillar where I sat curled into a ball, clutching his precious journal.
May you like
Dominic crouched down until his dark, intense eyes were level with mine. The air around him smelled of gunsmoke and expensive cologne.
"Well, Amelia Reed," Dominic said softly, a faint, dangerous smile playing at the corner of his lips. "It turns out you are much more than a waitress."
