Chapter 4

"Money! I've got money—lots of it!"

Antonio's voice trembled violently. The cold steel pressed against his skull had sobered him up fast.

"It's all in the warehouse safe. And product... take it all! Please, man!"

Viktor said nothing. He just shoved the suppressor deeper into the back of Antonio's head.

"And her! Her!"

Antonio suddenly grabbed the blonde girl like a drowning man clutching driftwood, shoving her forward. "She's still a virgin! I haven't even touched her! She's yours now—do whatever you want with her!"

The girl's eyes went wide with terror, darting between Viktor and Antonio. Her whole body shook. She was maybe five-seven, curly blonde hair stuck to her sweat-damp face, thin waist and full chest heaving beneath a cheap dress—beautiful, but fragile as glass.

Viktor glanced at her.

She was stunning. Beautiful enough to distract most men.

But all he felt was the familiar cold spreading through his chest. In his past life, he'd seen too many girls like this. They always ended up as collateral damage in power games. He wasn't here for women. Not now.

"I'm going to ask you some questions." Viktor's voice was unnervingly calm. "Answer honestly, and I might let you live."

Antonio nodded frantically. Sweat and blood ran down his face.

"In Bankhead—besides you, who else runs things?"

"No... nobody. Just me."

"Let me rephrase that." Viktor's voice dropped lower. "Who do you really work for?"

Antonio went silent.

That brief hesitation—it stuck in Viktor's mind like a needle. In his past life, that silence had been the beginning. The shadow of the Mexicans swallowing Bankhead whole.

Viktor didn't give him another chance.

He moved the gun to Antonio's thigh and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

BANG.

The scream tore through the night. Antonio collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood sprayed from his femoral artery, spreading fast across the concrete.

"My patience is limited."

Viktor crouched down, moving the suppressor to Antonio's other leg. "Hesitate again, and you'll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair."

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Antonio's face twisted in agony, his voice breaking. "It's the Mexicans! Espejo! Miguel Ramirez! Everyone calls him Espejo!"

Viktor's eyes narrowed. That name brought back a flood of bloody memories—the ruthless Mexican who'd slowly eaten away at his empire, piece by piece.

In the questions that followed, Antonio spilled everything—cooperation details, warehouse locations, safe combinations. Viktor memorized every word. Espejo. He was the real power behind Bankhead.

When he had what he needed, Viktor stood up, looking down at Antonio like a dying dog.

"You did well." His tone was almost amused. "I'll keep my promise."

A flicker of hope lit Antonio's eyes. His body relaxed slightly.

"Now. Make a call." Viktor's voice hardened. "Get the rest of your core guys out of that warehouse. I need to have a word with them."

Antonio froze, fear creeping back into his voice. "You... you said you'd let me go."

"I did say that."

Viktor crouched down again, meeting his eyes. His voice was sincere—almost gentle. "But your crew? I don't trust them. I need to disarm them first. Then I'll let you walk. You leave Atlanta. Never come back. And I'll spare your life."

Antonio looked at his leg, still pumping blood. Then at Viktor's young face—those eyes with no warmth at all. He broke.

He pulled out his phone with shaking hands and dialed.

"Hello..."

"Kahu, grab Ricardo and Miguel. Come out to the parking lot."

"Boss, what's going on? We're all wasted in here..."

"Shut up and get out here! Now!"

He hung up.

Viktor dragged Antonio behind the Cadillac, jamming the suppressor into his spine.

"Keep your mouth shut. Or you know what happens."

A few minutes later, the warehouse back door opened. Three drunk men stumbled out—a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt, followed by a bald man and a skinny one.

"Boss? Where you at?" the Hawaiian shirt called out.

They saw the bodies on the ground. But the alcohol slowed their brains.

Then Viktor stepped out of the shadows.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

Three shots.

Clean. Cold. Final.

The parking lot fell silent again. Only the smell of blood drifting on the night breeze.

Viktor walked over to Antonio.

The man who'd once ruled Bankhead was trembling all over. Urine ran down his pant leg.

"You promised..." Antonio's voice cracked with despair. "You fucking promised you'd let me go..."

"I did promise."

Viktor crouched down, staring into his eyes from inches away. A cold smile touched his lips. "But you should know—in our line of work, promises are the cheapest thing there is."

Antonio's pupils dilated. Shock and betrayal filled his face—the same expression Viktor had worn watching Eddie pull the trigger.

"You... lied..."

Viktor didn't let him finish.

He shoved the suppressor into Antonio's mouth.

"Goodnight, Antonio."

BANG.

The final shot echoed in the narrow space.

Viktor stood up, surveying the five bodies scattered across the lot. Power always changed hands in blood.

The blonde girl—Amy—was still collapsed beside the Cadillac, shaking, letting out muffled sobs.

Viktor walked over and crouched in front of her. He tried to soften his voice, but it still carried an edge of absolute authority.

"What's your name?"

"A... Amy..."

"Amy. Look at me."

She mechanically lifted her head. Her pale blue eyes were shattered with fear.

"Listen. I'm not going to kill you. But you need to do exactly what I say. Understand?"

Amy nodded frantically.

"Stand up. Come with me."

Her legs were weak—she could barely stand—but she struggled to her feet.

"Close your eyes. Wait for me. Be good."

Amy obediently shut her eyes.

Viktor turned back to Antonio's corpse, grabbed a fistful of hair, and used a folding knife to sever the spine with practiced efficiency. Warm blood poured out.

In his past life, he'd done this too many times. Each time pushed him further from the man he'd wanted to become. This time, he told himself, it was to protect his family.

A few seconds later, he lifted the still-dripping head and wrapped it in the Hawaiian shirt.

Viktor carried the bundle toward the warehouse back door.

He pushed it open a crack. Inside, the party raged on—pounding bass, flashing lights, the air thick with alcohol, cocaine, and sweat.

He walked in like he owned the place and shut off the music.

Everyone looked up.

"Who the fuck are you?" a drunk voice slurred.

"I'm Viktor Morti."

He flashed a calm but dangerous smile. "Starting tonight, I'm your new boss."

Two seconds of silence. Then laughter erupted.

"Where the hell did this kid come from?"

Antonio's nephew stood up, his face full of contempt. "You know whose territory this is? You know who I am?"

Viktor smiled faintly. "Who are you?"

"I'm Antonio's nephew! You fucking—"

BANG.

The bullet punched through his forehead. The young man dropped like a stone.

Viktor slowly unwrapped the bundle, letting Antonio's twisted, lifeless face roll across the floor.

The bloody head tumbled twice under the colored lights and stopped.

The warehouse went dead silent.

Viktor scanned the room, his voice low and clear:

"Anyone else... have a problem with that?"