Chapter 8 - The Chess Move
Before Rostov could take another step toward her, the emergency intercom system embedded in the library wall chimed twice.
Julian’s voice echoed through the room—cold, absolute, and devoid of any human warmth.
"Take another step, Viktor, and your brains will decorate my Persian rug before you reach the hallway."
Rostov stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly raised his hands, a dark smirk twisting his scarred face. "Julian! I was wondering when the host would show up to greet his guests."
The heavy double doors behind Rostov swung wide open.
Julian stood in the threshold, flanked by four elite security operatives holding tactical rifles pointed squarely at Rostov’s chest. Julian wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the cold, coiled intensity of a predator who had just found his prey standing in his living room.
"You have one minute to explain why you thought breaking into my home was a viable business strategy," Julian said, stepping into the room. His eyes didn't look at Rostov; they locked onto Simone to ensure she was unharmed. When he saw she was standing tall, his shoulders relaxed by a fraction of an inch.
Rostov scoffed, lowering his hands slightly. "Matteo Vance stole four hundred thousand dollars of my capital to fund his real estate scam. Your federal friends froze my accounts. I want my money back, Marzano. Otherwise, your shipping lines in the harbor are going to burn to ash one by one."
Julian didn't blink. He walked slowly toward Rostov until they were standing inches apart.
"Matteo Vance is currently sitting in a federal penitentiary because he broke the law," Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "You gave your money to a desperate amateur who couldn't balance a checkbook. That is a bad investment, Viktor. Not my problem."
Rostov’s eyes flashed with rage. "You think you own Chicago, Julian? You think you can—"
"I don't think," Julian interrupted, his voice cutting through the room like a razor. "I calculate."
Julian raised his left hand and snapped his fingers twice.
Marco stepped into the doorway, holding a secure tablet out to Rostov. "Take a look at line four, Viktor."
Rostov squinted down at the screen. As his eyes tracked the financial data, all the color drained from his scarred face.
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"That... that's impossible," Rostov stammered.
"Your offshore accounts in Cyprus were flagged for international tax evasion thirty minutes ago," Julian said smoothly. "By morning, the Interpol asset-recovery division will have seized every cent you've laundered through the Baltic shipping routes over the last decade. You don't have four hundred thousand dollars missing, Viktor. You have nothing left at all."
