Chapter 6 - The Lion’s DenInside the reinforced concrete vault, the emergency lighting cast a dim, amber glow over rows of backup monitors, communication arrays, and emergency supply shelves.
I pressed my palms flat against the cold steel of the vault door, my breath coming in ragged, hysterical gasps.
“Dorian!” I screamed, slamming my fists against the metal. “Dorian, open the door! Let me out!”
There was no answer from the other side, save for the muffled, terrifying concussions of muffled gunfire, shouting, and the heavy thud of bodies colliding against the drywall in the hallway outside.
Every second stretched into an eternity.
I stared up at the primary security monitor mounted on the vault wall. The system feed flickered, stuttered, and then stabilized, displaying the wide-angle camera view of the main living room.
What I saw on the screen made my blood run instantly cold.
Dorian was down on one knee behind the kitchen marble island, his tactical vest scorched, blood staining the left shoulder of his black shirt. Two of Savich’s mercenaries had him pinned, their assault rifles leveled directly at his head.
And stepping out from the shadows of the private elevator foyer, flanked by two more armed enforcers, was Viktor Savich himself.
Savich was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties with cold, dead eyes and the tailored suit of a Wall Street executive masking the soul of a butcher. He walked slowly across the ruined living room, stepping over shattered glass and broken art pieces, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips.
“Well, well, well,” Savich’s voice echoed clearly through the integrated intercom speakers in the panic room. “Dorian Cross. The untouchable king of Chicago, brought to his knees in his own living room.”
Dorian didn't flinch. He kept his pistol gripped firmly in his hand, his breathing heavy, his dark eyes locked onto Savich with unyielding contempt.
“You’re trespassing, Viktor,” Dorian said, his voice remarkably steady despite the blood loss from his shoulder.
“Trespassing?” Savich chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. “My dear boy, this city belongs to whoever has the strength to take it. And tonight, you’ve lost everything. Your shipping contracts are forfeited, your real-estate portfolio is being liquidated by my associates as we speak, and your precious little wife—where is she, Dorian? Is she cowering in the bedroom, waiting to see what’s left of her husband?”
Dorian’s jaw tightened so hard I thought the bone would snap.
“Alina is out of this,” Dorian growled. “This is between you and me.”
“Nothing is out of this,” Savich sneered, raising his own polished silver pistol and pointing it directly at Dorian’s chest. “Tell me where the offshore transfer keys are located in your terminal, and I might let your corpse have a closed-casket funeral. Otherwise... well, let’s just say accidents happen in high-rise fires all the time.”
Inside the panic room, my hands flew to my mouth to stifle a scream.
He was going to kill him. Savich was going to execute Dorian right there on our living room floor, and there was nothing I could do.
Unless...
My eyes darted frantically around the interior of the panic room.
My fingers brushed against the emergency override console mounted on the side wall—a heavy manual mechanical lever designed to emergency-vent the vault’s air filtration system into the main HVAC trunk of the penthouse in case of chemical or smoke contamination.
It wasn't a door release.
It was a pneumatic pressure valve connected directly to the central air ducts running through the ceiling of the living room above.
If I pulled that lever, the compressed chemical suppressant stored in the emergency tanks would flood the living room vents in seconds, dropping every conscious soul in that room into instant, heavy unconsciousness.
Including Dorian.
It was a desperate, insane gamble. If the mercenaries were wearing respirators, it wouldn't work. If Dorian inhaled too much of the heavy gas before he could clear the room, it could stop his heart.
I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed the heavy red iron lever with both hands and threw my entire body weight downward.
HIIISSSSSSSS!
A deafening rush of high-pressure gas erupted through the ventilation grates of the living room on the monitor screen.
On the screen, Savich’s men coughed violently, dropping their weapons as their eyes rolled back into their heads. Savich staggered backward, clutching his throat, shouting curses in Russian before collapsing face-first onto the marble floor.
Dorian, reacting with preternatural speed even while wounded, ripped a tactical respirator from his belt, slapping it over his face just as the thick white cloud filled the room.
For ten agonizing seconds, the screen showed nothing through the dense fog.
Then, a tall, shadowy figure stepped through the haze toward the camera.
The heavy steel vault door let out a loud, pneumatic click, and the locks disengaged.
The door swung slowly open.
Dorian stood in the threshold, his respirator hanging around his neck, his shirt ruined with blood, his eyes burning with a wild, victorious fire.
He didn't say a word. He simply reached into the vault, pulled me out into his arms, and crushed me against his chest so hard I could barely breathe.
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“You’re insane,” he whispered into my hair, his voice choked with raw emotion. “You absolute, reckless, brilliant woman.”
“I learned it from the best,” I sobbed against his shoulder, my hands gripping his tactical vest as the sirens began to wail far down below in the snowy Chicago streets.
