Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Dark
The trap was already closing around us.
I stood in the dim pantry, listening to the rain hammer against the high foundation windows. Sloan’s hands were trembling against my arm, but my mind was surprisingly clear. For two years, I had lived as a ghost. Now, the ghost had to fight.
"Sloan," I said, holding her gaze firmly. "Is the old laundry chute in the basement still connected to the master suite?"
Sloan blinked, startled. "The Victorian chute? Yes, but it's narrow and covered in dust. Nobody's used it since the eighties."
"It's big enough for me," I said, stripping off my heavy apron. "Go back to the kitchen. Pretend you know nothing. If Kirill's men come down, make them coffee."
"Alina, if they catch you in the walls—"
"They won't," I cut her off, my voice laced with a cold confidence I didn't know I possessed. "My father was Nikolai Romanov. I'm done running."
Ten minutes later, I was crawling through the dusty, wooden framework behind the mansion's walls. The air was thick with the scent of old pine and forgotten copper pipes. My knees burned against the rough boards, but I pushed forward, guided by the faint sounds echoing through the estate's hidden veins.
I reached the vent opening directly behind the fireplace in Damon's private study.
Looking through the brass ironwork, my chest tightened.
Kirill was standing inside the room. Two heavily armed guards in black tactical gear stood behind him, suppressed rifles resting against their vests.
Damon was sitting behind his mahogany desk, fully dressed in a sharp black suit. Despite his pale face and the bandaged ribs hidden beneath his tailored shirt, he looked every bit the king of Chicago.
"You're moving the shipment three hours early, Kirill," Damon said, his voice a cool, dangerous purr. "Without my signature."
"Times have changed, Damon," Kirill said smoothly, pouring himself a glass of scotch from the sideboard. "The board thinks you're getting soft. First, you let the Romanov bloodline slip through your fingers years ago. Now, you get caught in a simple street ambush."
Damon's gray eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "The ambush wasn't simple. It was orchestrated by someone who knew my exact route."
"Guilty as charged," Kirill smiled, taking a slow sip. "Ivan Vane paid twenty million for your coordinates. And once he takes control of the docks tonight, the Volkov name becomes history."
"You think Vane will let you live once I'm dead?" Damon asked calmly. "You're a tool, Kirill. A temporary inconvenience."
"Maybe," Kirill sneered, reaching into his coat and pulling out a silenced pistol. "But I'll be a rich inconvenience. Where is the Romanov girl?"
Inside the vent, my breath caught in my throat.
Damon didn't even flinch. He leaned back in his chair, tapping a single finger against the leather armrest.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Damon said smoothly.
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"Don't lie to me!" Kirill snapped, aiming the barrel directly at Damon's head. "I saw her medical kit in your bedroom. I saw her picture on your desk three weeks ago! She’s here, isn't she? The maid!"
Damon's eyes flashed with a terrifying, demonic fire. "If you lay a single finger on her, Kirill, I will tear your limbs off before you can pull that trigger."
