Chapter 4 - The Longest Night
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind Roman, the metallic click of the deadbolt echoing through the cavernous penthouse like a gunshot.
Silence descended, thick and suffocating.
I stood frozen in the middle of the sprawling living room, clutching the silk robe Roman had thrown at me earlier. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the rain lashed viciously against the reinforced panels. Down in the city, the sprawling neon grid flickered through curtains of fog, but to the east—where the Onyx Club stood—I could see the faint, rhythmic flashes of red and blue emergency sirens.
Then came the sounds. Muffled, distant, but undeniable: the rhythmic *pop-pop-pop* of automatic gunfire echoing across the concrete canyons of the metropolis.
A violent shiver racked my spine. *What have I gotten myself into?*
Only twelve hours ago, my biggest worry had been paying off my overdue rent and dealing with a broken espresso machine at the diner where I worked. A simple typographical slip, a misdialed number, a stupid text meant for my deadbeat ex: *"I'm waiting outside, baby. Don't make me freeze."*
And now, Roman Vane—the apex predator of the city’s criminal underworld, a man whose name was whispered in courthouses and dark alleys with equal terror—was out on the streets, turning rival syndicates into ash because someone dared challenge his claim on me.
"Miss Elena."
I jumped, spinning around with a gasp.
Standing near the hallway leading to the guest suites was Viktor, Roman’s stone-faced lieutenant. Unlike Roman, who wore his ruthlessness under bespoke Italian tailoring, Viktor looked like an unyielding monolith, armed to the teeth with a tactical vest and an assault rifle slung across his chest.
"You need to step away from the windows," Viktor said, his Russian-accented voice flat and devoid of emotion. "The glass is ballistic-grade, but Petrov employs military snipers. Light makes you a silhouette."
My legs trembling, I hurried toward the interior lounge, sinking into a plush leather armchair far from the glass. "Is Roman... will he be okay?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Viktor’s eyebrow twitched slightly, a ghost of amusement cracking his stony exterior. "Petrov has three dozen men and cheap courage. The Boss has the entire city’s infrastructure in his pocket and an army that would die for him. You should not worry about Mr. Vane, Miss Elena. You should worry about what happens to anyone who stands between him and his property."
*Property.* The word stung, sending a bizarre mixture of indignation and heat coursing through my veins.
"I'm not his property," I muttered, crossing my arms defensively over my chest.
Viktor didn't reply. He simply tapped his earpiece, listened intently for a few seconds, and then frowned. "Stay here. Do not open any doors. If you hear shooting inside this room, crawl beneath the steel desk in the Boss's private study. Understood?"
May you like
Before I could answer, the lights inside the penthouse flickered once, twice, and abruptly plunged the entire floor into pitch-black darkness.
***