Chapter 7 - Blood in the Gallery
The portrait gallery of Grayhaven House was a museum of ghosts.
Generations of Volkovs—smugglers, syndicate kingpins, cold-eyed patriarchs who had ruled the Baltimore docks with iron fists—stared down from their ornate gold frames at the carnage unfolding beneath them.
Viktor burst through the service lift doors first, a gas mask dangling from his neck, a submachine gun raised in his trembling hands. Behind him strode Arthur Sterling, his silver hair immaculate despite the smoke, holding a silenced pistol with the cold precision of a professional executioner.
“Volkov!” Viktor shouted over the echoing acoustics of the gallery. “It’s over! The house is sealed, your guards are unconscious in the foyer, and you’re bleeding out on your own floorboards! Come out and die like a man!”
From the shadows near the far archway, a low, chilling laugh echoed through the gallery.
“You always were a loud idiot, Viktor,” Damian’s voice sliced through the gloom.
Damian stepped out from beneath the portrait of his grandfather—the founder of the syndicate. He stood tall, his dark cashmere robe stained with dried blood at the shoulder, his right hand gripping his Sig Sauer with absolute, unyielding steadiness. He didn't look like a dying man; he looked like the grim reaper incarnate.
Viktor raised his weapon to fire, but before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a sharp burst of gunfire from the marble pillar behind him shattered his aim.
Marcus caught Viktor in the shoulder, spinning the traitor around and sending him crashing against a display case of antique swords.
“Traitor,” Marcus spat, stepping out from behind the pillar with his weapon raised.
“Kill him!” Sterling shrieked, pointing his silenced pistol directly at Damian’s chest. “Kill them both!”
Sterling fired first.
The silenced round chipped the mahogany molding inches from Damian’s ear. Damian didn't flinch. He raised his pistol, sighted down the barrel with terrifying calm, and squeezed the trigger twice.
Bang. Bang.
Sterling gasped, dropping his weapon as two rounds caught him cleanly in the shoulder and thigh. The silver-haired mastermind stumbled backward, collapsing against a priceless oil painting of the 19th-century Baltimore harbor, leaving a smear of dark crimson across the canvas.
Viktor, groaning in agony on the floor, tried to reach for a dropped pistol near his boots.
Damian walked over slowly, the heavy thud of his boots echoing against the parquet floor. He stopped right beside Viktor, looking down at his former second-in-command with eyes as cold as deep-sea ice.
“You thought I wouldn't notice the accounts being siphoned to New York?” Damian asked quietly, his voice like grinding stone. “You thought because I trusted you, I was blind?”
“You... you were dying,” Viktor choked out, blood pooling beneath his chest. “The poison... Sterling said your heart was done...”
“My heart was failing,” Damian agreed, pressing the barrel of his pistol lightly against Viktor’s forehead. “Until someone reminded me what it feels like to actually be alive.”
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Before Viktor could reply, Damian struck him across the temple with the heavy grip of the gun, sending the traitor sliding into unconsciousness.
The gallery fell silent once more, save for the crackle of a distant wall sconce and the heavy, ragged breathing of the victor standing amidst the smoke.
