Chapter 16: The Wrath of the Tsar
The freezing of three billion dollars did not go unnoticed.
In the criminal underworld, money is blood. And Elena Rostova had just drained the Volkov Syndicate of their life force. The retaliation was swift, silent, and undeniably brutal.
It began at 3:00 AM on a Friday. Julian was asleep next to Elena in her penthouse when his encrypted private phone began to vibrate violently. He answered it, his voice rough with sleep, but within seconds, his posture went rigid. He sat up, the sheets falling away from his chest.
"I understand," Julian said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy calm. "Lock down the remaining ports. No one gets in or out."
Elena sat up, pulling a silk robe over her shoulders. The moonlight caught the sharp, dangerous angles of her face. "What happened?"
"Warehouse 4 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard," Julian said, throwing off the covers and walking toward his dressing room. "It was burned to the ground twenty minutes ago. A hundred million dollars in luxury electronics, reduced to ash. And they left a message."
"A message?"
Julian turned to look at her, his dark eyes burning with a fury she had rarely seen. "They killed the night watchman and pinned a note to his chest. It just said: Checkmate is a Russian game, little girl."
Elena didn't gasp. She didn't flinch. The Iron Empress simply closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, mourning the innocent life lost, before opening them to reveal a cold, terrifying void.
"Ivan Volkov," Elena murmured, stepping out of bed. Ivan was the head of the syndicate, a man so terrifying that even other cartels refused to do business with him. He was a ghost, a myth of brutality. And now, he was in New York.
"He’s not hiding behind spoiled rich kids like Victor Sterling anymore," Julian said, strapping a shoulder holster over his crisp white shirt. "He’s on American soil, Elena. And he’s coming for blood."
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Elena walked over to her own armoire. She bypassed the designer gowns and silk suits, opening a hidden steel compartment at the back. She pulled out a sleek, custom-fitted kevlar vest and a pair of matte-black tactical trousers.
"If Ivan Volkov wants to play on my chessboard," Elena said, her voice devoid of all human emotion as she loaded a silver hollow-point magazine into a Glock 19. "I’ll make sure it’s his final game. Call the board of directors, Julian. We have a rat in our house."
