Chapter 7 - The Last Supper
The massive oak front doors of the Kozlov estate were unlatched.
Damon pushed them open with the toe of his boot, stepping into a grand, marble-tiled foyer dominated by a floating staircase and a crystal chandelier that cast long, swaying shadows across the walls.
The air inside smelled of expensive cigars, aged scotch, and gunpowder.
“Damon Cross!” a booming voice echoed from the grand dining hall at the end of the corridor. “The prince of South Boston comes to visit the old king! Come in, come in! The steak is still warm!”
Damon walked down the long hallway, his boots dripping rainwater onto the pristine Persian runners.
He stepped into the dining room.
It was a cavernous space with a thirty-foot oak table. At the far end sat Viktor Kozlov—a seventy-year-old man with a thick silver beard, wearing a tailored velvet smoking jacket. He was cutting a thick piece of rare ribeye steak with a silver knife.
Standing along the perimeter of the room were eight men armed with tactical rifles.
Damon didn't look at the guards. His eyes stayed locked on Kozlov.
“You’re late for dinner, Damon,” Kozlov said, chewing slowly before taking a sip of red wine from a crystal goblet—the exact same style of glass that had shattered on the floor of St. Cordova three hours ago.
“Julian is broken,” Damon said flatly, stopping ten feet from the table. “Your hit squad in the alley is dead or in police custody. And your logistics network at the harbor is being seized by federal agents as we speak.”
Kozlov set his fork down with a quiet clink. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look afraid. He looked bored.
“Julian was a tool,” Kozlov said dismissively. “A weak man with a weak heart. I knew he would fail eventually. But you... you surprise me, Damon. All this blood, all this effort... for Eli Voss’s pregnant widow?”
Kozlov let out a dry, wheezing laugh.
“Eli was a grease monkey, Damon. A mechanic with cheap dirt under his fingernails. He wasn't mob royalty. He wasn't your blood. Why burn down an empire for a ghost?”
Damon’s hand rested at his side, his fingers loose around the grip of his gun.
“Eli Voss had more honor in his pinky finger than you have in your entire bloodline, Viktor,” Damon said quietly. “He didn't die because he was weak. He died because he was trying to protect a city that didn't deserve him.”
“Honor doesn't pay for fuel on yachts, my boy,” Kozlov sneered, leaning back in his tall leather chair. “You think you’ve won because you marched into my house? Look around you. You’re surrounded by eight men with automatic weapons. You step one inch closer, and you become a stain on my rug.”
Damon looked at the eight guards standing in the shadows.
Then he pulled a small, black detonator from his coat pocket and held it up in the bright chandelier light.
Kozlov’s smile flickered. “What is that?”
“Your house is built on a high-pressure natural gas main, Viktor,” Damon said softly. “Thirty minutes ago, my team bypassed your security meters in the basement. Right now, this entire estate is filled with four thousand cubic feet of volatile propane.”
The eight guards looked at each other, their faces instantly pale with terror. Two of them lowered their rifles, taking hesitant steps toward the exits.
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“He’s lying!” Kozlov roared, standing up so fast his chair fell backward onto the floor. “Shoot him!”
“Try it,” Damon whispered, his thumb resting gently on the small red button. “One spark from a muzzle flash, and this whole mountain turns into glass.”
