Chapter 9 - The Ruin of the WolfThe fallback was instantaneous. The moment the news broke that the Atlantic Towers project had been frozen by the Callaway Group, the Bratva’s financial empire shattered like glass. Their bank accounts were frozen by federal regulators, their lenders panicked, and by midnight, Nikolai Borsov’s soldiers were abandoning him in droves as the syndicate ran completely out of cash to pay their weekly salaries.
But as Nathaniel Callaway had predicted, Borsov didn't go quietly.
The private armored train car carrying me back to New York was moving swiftly through the dark, snowy hills of Connecticut when the emergency brakes suddenly engaged with a violent, screeching roar. The massive train shuddered, throwing me forward against the plush leather seats of the private compartment.
Outside the windows, the snowy darkness erupted into gunfire.
"Miss Clare! Stay down!" Marco’s voice screamed through the intercom system as the bulletproof glass of the train car rattled under a barrage of high-caliber rifle fire. "We’ve been ambushed! They blocked the tracks with an old freight car!"
I curled into a ball on the floor, my hands covering my stomach, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My baby. Please, protect my baby.
The door of the private compartment was suddenly blown open. Two Moretti guards fell backward, their chests stained with blood. Through the smoke, a tall, older Russian man with a heavily scarred face and dead, grey eyes stepped into the car, holding a gold-plated pistol.
It was Nikolai Borsov.
"Where is the girl?" Borsov growled, his voice deep and raspy. He spotted me on the floor, his eyes lighting up with a manic, desperate satisfaction. He reached down, grabbing my arm with a crushing, painful grip, and dragged me up to my feet. "The Moretti prince thought he could ruin me? He thought he could use a little florist to steal my empire? You are coming with me, girl. Let’s see how many ports Damen will trade for your life."
He dragged me out of the train car into the freezing, snow-covered woods beside the tracks. His remaining five soldiers surrounded us, their weapons pointed at the dark tree line.
But as Borsov forced me toward a waiting SUV hidden in the trees, a sound cut through the winter air.
It wasn't a gunshot. It was the deep, deafening roar of a twin-engine military-grade helicopter descending directly over the tree line, its massive searchlights blinding the dark forest in a white, artificial day.
The side door of the helicopter flew open while it was still twenty feet above the ground.
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A man vaulted out of the aircraft, dropping into the deep snow drifts like a vengeful god of ice and iron. He didn't have a weapon in his hand. He didn't need one. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated slaughter.
Damen Moretti had arrived.
