Chapter 8 - Viktor’s Betrayal and the Dark Revelation That Links the Attempted Murder to the Marchetti Family Throne
The name Viktor Marchetti hung in the suffocating air of the hallway like the scent of cordite after a gunshot.
Sloan’s face didn't twist into rage; instead, his features hardened into something far more terrifying—an absolute, glacial stillness that signaled imminent, merciless execution.
Viktor.
His own blood cousin.
The man who had spent the last five years smiling across dining tables, raising glasses to family unity, and secretly plotting to carve up the Marchetti syndicate from the inside out by eliminating Sloan’s direct heirs and family members one by one.
“Where is Viktor right now?” Sloan asked, his voice so quiet it was barely audible above the hum of the refrigerator.
“He’s hosting a private high-stakes poker game at the Riverside Penthouse downtown,” Bishop replied steadily, shifting the blood-stained ledger to his other hand.
“He thinks Cora is still in critical condition at St. Jude’s Hospital and that you’re tied up dealing with medical staff. He has no idea we intercepted Leo or recovered his burner phone.”
Sloan let out a slow, deliberate breath through his nose.
He turned his head slightly, his steel-gray eyes locking onto Delphine, who had been listening to every word from the doorway of the kitchenette.
She had lived in this world long enough to know what happened next.
When a king discovered a viper in his own household, the throne room invariably ran red with blood.
“You’re going to go kill him,” Delphine stated quietly, her voice devoid of panic, carrying only a heavy, sorrowful resignation.
“I am going to remind my cousin why nobody touches my family and lives to draw breath,” Sloan corrected her, his gaze holding hers with an intense, unyielding gravity.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of her face with a gentleness that contrasted jarringly with the lethal weapon still resting in his other hand.
Delphine flinched slightly at his touch, but she didn’t pull away.
“And you,” Sloan continued, his thumb brushing softly against her cheekbone, “are not staying in this unprotected apartment for another single minute.”
“Sloan, I can take care of myself—”
“Bishop,” Sloan interrupted, never breaking eye contact with his wife.
“Assign two full tactical teams to secure this entire building. Move her belongings into my armored transport right now. She is coming with me to the downtown estate where my personal guards can watch every breath she takes.”
“Understood, boss,” Bishop replied instantly, turning on his heel to bark orders down the stairwell.
“I am not your prisoner!” Delphine snapped, her amber eyes flashing with renewed fury as she slapped Sloan’s hand away from her face.
“I didn't save your sister tonight just to be dragged back into your gilded cage as a hostage to your family wars!”
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“You aren't a hostage, Delphine,” Sloan said, his voice dropping into a low, husky growl as he leaned down until his lips were dangerously close to her ear.
“You are my wife. And tonight, when Viktor’s assassin tried to murder my sister, he also signed his own death warrant. Pack your things. Because whether you walk to my car on your own two feet or I throw you over my shoulder in front of your neighbors, you are leaving this place with me right now.”
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