Chapter 3 - The Price of Silence
The return to the surface was executed under military-grade security. Within forty-five minutes, seven black armored vehicles had surrounded the Southside exit, whisking Viktor, Julian, Lily, and Shadow away from the industrial wasteland before the Metropolitan Police or rival syndicates could react to the gunfire beneath the city.
The Draven estate in Mayfair was a fortress of stone, bulletproof glass, and private security guards. Inside, warm light poured from massive crystal chandeliers, reflecting off polished marble floors and mahogany walls.
In the primary medical bay on the ground floor, Dr. Evans, the Draven family’s private physician, finished wrapping a clean bandage around Julian’s sprained wrist.
"He’s exhausted, bruised, and mildly dehydrated, Mr. Draven," Dr. Evans said, stepping out into the hallway. "But physically, he’s remarkably intact. He’ll make a full recovery in a few days."
Viktor nodded, his face unreadable. "And the girl?"
"She’s severely malnourished," the doctor sighed, shaking his head. "Old scars on her arms and back—looks like physical abuse from a long time ago. She’s running a slight fever, but she refuses to lie on the bed unless the dog is sitting on the blanket beside her."
Viktor walked down the corridor and pushed open the door to the secondary guest suite.
The contrast was stark. Lily sat swallowed up in a plush velvet armchair, wearing a clean, oversized cashmere sweater provided by the house staff. On the white silk rug beside her lay Shadow, cleanly bathed, his coat brushed out, eating prime cut ribeye steak from a silver platter like a king.
When Viktor entered, Lily immediately tried to slide off the chair to stand up, but Viktor held up a hand, stopping her.
"Sit," Viktor said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man whose name made international cartel bosses sweat. He sat down on the leather ottoman across from her. "The doctor says you've had a hard life, Lily."
Lily looked down at her hands, her small fingers tracing the gold thread on the sweater sleeves. "Shadow and I lived in the old train yard behind Saint Jude’s. The man who owned the yard used to hit Shadow with an iron chain. One night, Shadow bit his leg through his boot, and we ran away."
"How long have you been on the streets?"
"Since the winter before last," she whispered. "My mother went to the hospital and didn't come back. The landlord locked the door."
Viktor felt an uncomfortable, burning sensation in his chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced since his own wife passed away six years ago. In his world, weakness was punished with death. But this child had survived the coldest, darkest corners of London with nothing but a stray dog and an unbreakable spirit.
Marcus knocked softly on the open door frame, holding an encrypted tablet. "Boss. We have a situation. The fingerprints on the mercenaries from the vault just came back."
Viktor stood up, stepping out into the hallway. "Kozlov?"
"No," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Not Kozlov. The weapons were registered to Vance Sterling."
Viktor’s eyes turned to liquid nitrogen.
Vance Sterling was Viktor’s primary business partner—the chairman of Sterling Logistics, the massive corporate front that laundered eighty percent of the Draven family’s international shipping interests. Sterling was a respected billionaire, a member of Parliament, and a man who sat at Viktor's dinner table every Christmas.
"Sterling tried to kidnap my son to force me to transfer the harbor deeds," Viktor said, the words coming out as a lethal, quiet promise.
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"It gets worse, Boss," Marcus added, pulling up a secondary file. "Sterling’s security team has been sweeping the Southside district all morning. They know a dog and a little girl led you to the vault. Sterling just put a two-million-pound bounty on the child’s head to eliminate the witness before the police find the bodies."
Inside the room, Shadow suddenly lifted his head from the silver platter, letting out a sharp, low growl toward the floorboards.
