Chapter 6 - The Traitor Unmasked
By 3:00 AM, the smoke had cleared, the perimeter was secured by an influx of Roman’s elite enforcers, and the bullet-riddled hallways of the McLean estate had fallen back into a grim, tense quiet.
In the subterranean command bunker, three captured mercenaries sat tied to heavy steel chairs, bleeding and battered.
Roman stood before them with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his knuckles stained with dried blood. He didn't need to torture them; the mere presence of the mafia boss was enough to make men beg for a quick execution.
“Who sent you?” Roman asked softly.
The lead merc, a scarred veteran with a Eastern European accent, spat blood onto the concrete floor. “Go to hell, DeLuca. You’re dead anyway. The syndicate has your contracts. Your inner circle is rotted out.”
“I know about Marcus Vance,” Roman said smoothly, stepping closer. “Who’s above Marcus?”
The mercenary’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second toward the security monitor displaying the upper floor feeds.
A sudden, cold realization hit Roman like a physical blow.
He hadn't just trusted Marcus Vance. Marcus had reported directly to the man who handled estate logistics, communications routing, and internal security deployments.
Viktor.
Before Roman could spin around, the heavy steel door of the bunker slammed shut with a resounding clack.
Standing by the control panel, holding a heavy-duty detonator and leveling an assault rifle directly at Roman’s chest, was Viktor.
The chief of security—the man Roman had trusted with his life for over a decade—wore a cold, betrayed smile.
“It’s a shame, Roman,” Viktor said, his voice steady as a rock. “You built an empire, but you let sentimentality cloud your judgment. You brought a civilian nanny into a war zone, and you let yourself get distracted by a pretty face.”
Roman didn't flinch. He kept his hand resting casually near his holster. “How much did the Moretti family pay you to sell out my boys, Viktor?”
“Enough to buy an island in the Mediterranean,” Viktor laughed darkly. “Moretti wants the shipping lanes. I want the throne. And once this entire bunker goes up in flames, the police will rule it a tragic insider massacre.”
Viktor’s thumb hovered over the red detonation button.
In the shadows behind Viktor, near the server racks, a silent shadow detached itself from the wall.
Josephine.
She had slipped into the bunker through the emergency ventilation service hatch while Viktor was busy gloating. She didn't make a sound. She moved like smoke.
Viktor started to press the trigger—
“Now!” Roman shouted.
Josephine exploded from the shadows. She lunged across the room, grabbed the barrel of Viktor’s assault rifle, and shoved it skyward just as the weapon discharged, blowing a massive hole in the concrete ceiling.
Viktor cursed, dropping the rifle and drawing a backup tactical Glock from his thigh holster.
He swung around to shoot her—
But Roman was already moving. With terrifying speed, Roman crossed the room, drove his fist straight into Viktor’s jaw with bone-crushing force, and slammed the traitor against the control console until the detonator slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered onto the floor.
Josephine scooped up the detonator, crushed it beneath her boot, and swept Viktor’s legs out, pinning him facedown onto the concrete with her knee pressed firmly into his spine.
The bunker went dead silent, save for the heavy panting of the combatants.
May you like
Roman stood over the groaning traitor, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with absolute, unforgiving fury.
“Take him to the deepest holding cell,” Roman ordered Mateo, who rushed back into the room with reinforcements. “And make sure he stays alive long enough to regret every breath he takes.”
