Chapter 8 - Fire and Redemption
The battle inside Warehouse 9 was swift, chaotic, and brutal.
Blinded by the dense wall of steam, Nikolai’s mercenaries fired wildly into the fog, their bullets striking metal containers and spark-ing harmlessly against the concrete floor. Victor’s men, equipped with thermal night-vision goggles, swept through the warehouse like specters, disarming and neutralizing the guards with terrifying efficiency.
I stayed close to Dmitri, my heart pounding in my ears as the sound of suppressed gunfire and shouting filled the vast, echoing space.
Through a break in the steam, I saw Nikolai Volkov stumbling backward toward a speed boat docked at the edge of the internal canal. He was clutching a silver briefcase, his face red and frantic as he coughed violently in the dense vapor.
"Victor!" Nikolai screamed into the mist, pulling a heavy revolver from his coat. "You traitor! You ruined the family! You brought peasants and commoners into our bloodline!"
"You forfeited your right to speak of family when you put a gun to my son's head!" Victor’s voice boomed from the shadows.
Victor stepped out of the white steam directly in front of Nikolai, his assault rifle lowered, his eyes burnished with pure rage.
Nikolai raised his revolver, his hand shaking uncontrollably. "I’ll kill you! I’ll take Chicago myself!"
Before Nikolai could pull the trigger, I spotted something moving in the shadows above—a surviving mercenary on a crane platform aiming a sniper rifle directly at Victor’s back.
"Victor! Look out!" I screamed, throwing myself forward without thinking.
I slammed into Victor's side, knocking him off his feet just as a high-caliber bullet shattered the concrete where he had been standing a microsecond before.
Victor rolled smoothly on the ground, popped up onto one knee, and fired a single burst upward. The sniper collapsed over the railing, falling forty feet into the dark water below.
Nikolai, seeing his last chance slipping away, turned to jump onto the speedboat. But Victor was faster. He lunged forward, grabbed Nikolai by his fur collar, and slammed the older man face-first onto the cold, wet steel of the dock.
The revolver clattered away, rolling into the water.
Victor stood over his uncle, resting his boot heavily on Nikolai’s chest. The old mobster gasped for air, staring up at his nephew with terrified, bloodshot eyes.
"Please... Victor," Nikolai wheezed, his bravado instantly evaporating. "We are blood... Moscow will never forgive you if you kill me..."
Victor looked down at him, his face completely devoid of emotion. "Moscow is far away, Nikolai. And Chicago belongs to people who protect their own."
Victor looked over at me as I picked myself up off the wet concrete, rubbing my bruised shoulder.
"Leo," Victor called out softly. "He threatened your life. He destroyed your home. What should I do with him?"
I stared at Nikolai—the feared underworld boss who had brought so much terror to my city, now shivering on the ground like a pathetic coward. He looked no different than the cruel bullies who had tried to take my father’s diner.
"Don't kill him, Victor," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. "If you kill him, you're just like him. Send him back to Moscow. Strip him of his power. Let him live the rest of his life knowing he was beaten by a chef and a loving father."
Nikolai blinked in disbelief, staring at me.
Victor looked at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered his rifle. A faint, proud smile touched his lips.
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"You hear that, Nikolai?" Victor said softly, pressing his boot harder into the old man's chest. "You owe your pathetic life to a man who cooks eggs for a living. Dmitri—put him on the next cargo ship to Siberia. Strip his accounts. If he ever sets foot in North America again, feed him to the fish."
"Yes, Boss," Dmitri grinned.
