Chapter 6 - The Retaliation
Three days later, the underworld of the Eastern Seaboard changed forever.
Mason did not die. The bullet had missed his vital organs by mere millimeters. After an underground trauma surgeon operated on him inside the vault, Mason spent forty-eight hours recovering in the master suite of the estate.
But the moment he could stand, the Orlov empire went to war.
I didn't cower in the background. I didn't beg him to stop. Sitting in the war room beside his bed, surrounded by Dominic and the lieutenants, I used my photographic memory of the Orlov financial servers to identify every shell company, shipping route, and offshore account the Markov Bratva possessed.
“If we sever their funding through the Cyprus banks,” I pointed out on the holographic map, my voice cold and steady, “they won’t be able to pay their mercenaries in New Jersey. Their foot soldiers will abandon them by midnight.”
Dominic looked at me, a profound, newfound respect shining in his hard eyes. He looked over at Mason, who was sitting in an armchair, a dark bandage wrapping his ribs.
Mason wasn't looking at the map. He was looking at me. The pride and absolute adoration in his storm-gray eyes made my breath catch.
May you like
“Do it,” Mason commanded softly, his eyes never leaving my face.
By dawn the next morning, the Markov family was erased. Their leaders were eliminated, their territories seized, and their wealth absorbed into Orlov Global Holdings. The message sent to the criminal underworld was clear and absolute: No one touches the Orlov king. And no one breathes in the direction of his queen.
