Chapter 6 - The Trap Closes
When the bag was ripped off her head, the blinding fluorescent glare of an abandoned industrial warehouse made Sienna’s eyes burn.
She was tied securely to a heavy metal chair, her wrists burning from the zip-ties. Standing in front of her was a man she had only ever seen in intelligence files: Nikolai Romanov, the ruthless leader of the Vostok Bratva syndicate. He wore an expensive white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing jagged scars across his forearms, and a cold, dead smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Sienna Brooks," Romanov purred, circling her like a shark smelling blood in the water. "The famous little accountant who turned our favorite wild bull into a domestic pet."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sienna spat, fighting against the chair.
Romanov chuckled darkly. He turned around, picked up a glowing laptop from a wooden crate, and spun it around so she could see the screen.
Her breath caught in her throat.
On the screen was an open administrative portal to the Moretti central server. And right there, stamped with her personal encryption key and digital security signature, was a massive data dump: every safehouse location, every police bribe ledger, every dock shipment schedule, and the master security override codes for the Moretti Tower.
Transferred directly to the Russian Bratva at 2:15 a.m. From her home IP address.
"No," Sienna whispered, horror washing over her in a freezing wave. "No, I didn't do this. I was framed!"
"Of course you were, darling," Romanov laughed smoothly. "Everyone is framed until the bullet finds them. But the best part is... Dawson is already on his way. And when he walks through those doors and sees that his precious little accountant handed his entire empire to his worst enemy on a silver platter... do you think he'll ask questions before he pulls the trigger?"
The warehouse doors at the far end of the hangar groaned open.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the concrete floor. One set. Two sets. Then a dozen.
Through the haze of dust and yellow light, Dawson Moretti walked into the warehouse. He wasn't wearing a suit tonight. He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, his face set in a mask of absolute, terrifying fury, a suppressed pistol held loosely in his right hand.
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And behind him, stepping out of the shadows with a calm, unreadable expression, was Arthur Vance—and Vittorio Moretti’s most trusted head of security, Marcus.
Sienna’s heart stopped.
