CHAPTER 12 — The Trial of Blood and Ink
The air in the sealed dining room grew suffocating. Volkov’s men looked at their boss, their confidence shattering as they realized they had walked directly into an execution chamber.
"Drop the guns," Marcus ordered, his voice booming like thunder in the enclosed space. "Now."
Volkov’s jaw ticked. He looked at me, realizing he had underestimated the girl with the purple stars. He slowly lowered his weapon, and his men followed suit, kicking their rifles across the floor.
"You think this changes anything?" Volkov spat, trying to maintain his bravado. "If I die here, my lieutenants will tear Chicago apart. They will burn every business, every home associated with Kane."
"No, they won't," I said calmly. I pulled a tablet from my bag and slid it across the table to him. "Because as of ten minutes ago, they don't work for you anymore."
Volkov frowned, picking up the tablet. His eyes widened as he read the encrypted emails and bank transfers I displayed on the screen.
"While you were busy planning this dramatic little home invasion," I explained, "I took the sixty million dollars I froze, ran it through a series of untraceable shell companies, and redistributed it to your three top lieutenants. I bought them, Alexander. They sold you out for twenty million apiece. You have no army. You have no money. You have nothing."
Volkov’s face went entirely pale. The illusion of his empire crumbled in front of him. He wasn't a king; he was just a boy playing dress-up in his father's bloody clothes.
"What do you want?" he whispered, the arrogance finally stripped from his voice.
Before I could answer, a hidden door behind the bookshelf clicked open.
Vincent Kane stepped into the room.
He moved slowly, leaning heavily on a cane, his oxygen tank wheeled beside him by a nurse. But his presence still sucked the air out of the room. He looked at Volkov with the tired annoyance of a lion looking at a particularly loud mosquito.
"I should have killed you when you were a child, Alexander," Vincent said, his voice raspy but firm. "I spared you out of respect for your father's memory. It was a rare lapse in judgment."
Vincent walked to the head of the table. He didn't sit. He just leaned against the mahogany wood, staring down the ruined Russian boss.
"Rory," Vincent commanded without looking at me. "Give him the contract."
I pulled a thick stack of legal documents from my bag and set them in front of Volkov, along with a heavy gold pen.
"This is an irrevocable transfer of all your remaining legitimate assets, properties, and shipping lines to a holding company controlled by my firm," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "You will sign it. Then, you will get on a plane to a very small, very cold island off the coast of Siberia. If you ever return to American soil, the federal government will receive a flash drive containing enough evidence of your extortion and racketeering to put you away for five consecutive life sentences."
Volkov stared at the paper. It was a total surrender. Total humiliation.
"You can't do this," he choked out. "I am a Volkov."
"And I am a Carter," I said, crossing my arms. "Sign it, or Marcus will save me the trouble of filing the paperwork."
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Marcus racked the slide of his pistol, a terrifying metallic clack in the quiet room.
Volkov’s hands shook. He picked up the pen and, with tears of absolute rage and defeat burning in his eyes, he signed his empire away.
