Chapter 11 - THE PANTHEON'S JUDGMENT
-11
The subterranean concrete chamber known as the Pantheon was cold, damp, and lit only by a single overhead halogen bulb casting a harsh, clinical glare over the concrete floor.
Ivan Petrov, the boss of the Chicago Bratva, sat tied securely to a heavy iron chair. His expensive silk suit was torn, his nose was broken, and blood leaked freely from a split lip as he glared up at Victor Romano with defiant, bloodshot eyes.
Victor stood directly in front of him, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets, his injured left shoulder held stiffly. He hadn't bothered changing out of his blood-stained shirt.
“You made a mistake, Victor,” Petrov spat, a bloody grin crossing his face. “You think you own this city? The Bratva is a hydra. Cut off one head, and two more grow back. You can't kill us all.”
“I don't need to kill all of you, Ivan,” Victor replied smoothly, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet register. “I just need to make an example out of the idiot who thought he could burn my estate and threaten my home.”
Petrov laughed, a harsh, rattling sound. “Your home? It’s a museum for a dead king! And what, you’re keeping a little kitchen rat as a pet now? I heard the rumors—the great Victor Romano has gone soft because of a maid!”
The moment the words left Petrov’s mouth, the temperature in the room plummeted below freezing.
Victor didn't raise his voice. He didn't blink. He simply drew his SIG Sauer pistol with blinding speed, pressed the barrel directly against the center of Petrov’s forehead, and cocked the hammer.
Clack.
Petrov’s laughter died instantly. Sweat poured down his face, his bravado evaporating into primitive terror.
“You can touch my ledgers, you can bomb my docks, and you can try to burn my library,” Victor whispered, his eyes burning with absolute, lethal fury. “But the moment you bring violence into the space where my people live and breathe... you sign your own death warrant.”
“Wait—Victor, let’s talk business—!” Petrov choked out.
“There is no business left to discuss, Ivan.”
Bang.
The gunshot echoed deafeningly off the concrete walls, the sound rolling away into the dark corners of the subterranean vault.
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Petrov slumped forward, his head hitting his chest as life drained from his body.
Victor slowly lowered the pistol, exhaling a long, steady breath. He holstered the weapon, turned on his heel, and walked out of the vault, leaving Paulie and the enforcers to clean up the mess.
