Chapter 8 - The Line Crossed
The entire room went dead silent.
Sal and Frankie froze, their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters, staring at me as if I had just volunteered to jump into a den of hungry lions.
Victor’s arm did not lower, but his head turned slowly. His cold, bloodshot gray eyes shifted from the dying man on the floor to me, standing frozen by the mahogany desk.
“Clara,” Victor said, his voice a low, warning growl. “Get out.”
“You can’t do this here,” I said, my voice shaking violently, but my feet refusing to move. The terror in my chest was real, but so was the sickening realization that I was living inside a nightmare. “Not in the house. Not where people can hear. If you kill him, there’s no turning back.”
Moretti seized on the distraction, gasping for air, looking at me with desperate, pleading eyes. “Yes! Miss... please tell him! I have kids—!”
“Shut up, Marco,” Victor snapped, his eyes never leaving mine. He took two slow, deliberate steps away from the prisoner, closing the distance between us until he stood right in front of me.
The smell of gunsmoke, metallic blood, and expensive cologne hung heavily in the air around him.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with, Clara,” Victor said quietly, his voice pitched so low the guards couldn't hear. “This isn't a board meeting. This is war. If I show weakness tonight, every dog in Chicago will tear my throat out tomorrow.”
“Executing a traitor in your own study isn't strength, Victor,” I whispered, looking straight into his fierce, haunted eyes. “It’s just blood. And I thought... I thought you were better than the men who destroy everything they touch.”
Victor stared at me. The silence stretched for an eternity.
For a second, I thought he was going to turn the gun on me—or worse, order Sal and Frankie to drag me away to the basement cells.
Instead, a muscle feathered along his clenched jaw.
Without breaking eye contact, Victor lowered the revolver, walked back over to his desk, and tossed the heavy weapon onto the blotter with a dull thud.
He turned to his enforcers.
“Take him down to the lower warehouse,” Victor ordered, his voice cold and emotionless once more. “Lock him in the holding cell. Let the Federal prosecutors pick him up in the morning. I’m done dirtying my own carpets.”
Sal and Frankie exchanged a quick, stunned look, then hauled the sobbing Moretti to his feet and dragged him out of the study, slamming the heavy oak doors shut behind them.
The study was suddenly quiet again.
Just the hum of the fire in the hearth and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Victor walked over to the window, staring out into the dark Chicago night, his back turned to me.
“You have a dangerous habit of stepping in front of bullets, Clara,” he said, his voice tight.
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“You didn't have to kill him,” I whispered, my legs finally giving out as I sank back down into the leather chair.
“In my world, mercy is a luxury that gets people killed,” Victor turned around, walking slowly back toward me until he was standing right beside my chair. He reached out, his warm fingers gently touching my cheek, wiping away a stray tear I hadn't realized I’d shed. “But for some reason... I find myself wanting to afford luxuries I can’t afford.”
