The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

He said it flatly and fast. He pushed Sienna behind the nearest table, found Aliya’s eyes, and she dropped to a crouch beside the cabinet without a sound. He slid the lock open with two fingers. The steel made no noise at all.

He stepped out into the passage.

His body was loose and easy. His hands hung at his sides. He was ready for anything he could think of. He expected a pair of early-rising guards. Or a maid with a message. Or, at the worst, the Don himself, in his white suit, with a gun and a gentle smile.

He did not expect this. He was alone. He lifted his head slowly and looked at Viktor, and a small, cold smile spread across his face. ”Commander,” said Shemmel, and smiled.

It was a slow smile, and it did not reach his eyes. He stood at the far end of the stone passage with his weight on his left leg, under the harsh white light, and he looked like a man who had been given a gift.

”I was looking for you,” he said. His voice was smooth and low. It carried easily down the hall.

”The maids told me you came this way. I did not believe them at first.” He tilted his head. ”But look at my luck. I found you.”

Viktor did not move. Behind him, the steel door stood open a hand’s width, and he could feel the cold air of the lab on his back. He did not look at it. He kept his eyes on the man in purple.

”It is good that we are alone,” Shemmel said. ”It saves time.”

He took one step forward. His right foot touched the floor, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. He hid it fast.

”You are standing between me and something I want,” he said. ”You know what that means.”

”Yes,” Viktor said. He did. He had known it the moment the man walked into the light.

He had no gun. The Don’s guards had taken it at the gate, politely, with a bow. He had only his two hands.

It was enough. He found that he did not even mind. All day he had walked behind a smiling man in white. He had watched a gun go off in a cell. He had been held down by six men in a parking lot and dragged away from his wife in front of a hundred guests.

He had swallowed all of it, every insult and every order, because there had been no choice. Now there was a choice. And the thing in front of him had a beard and a purple suit and a hungry smile.

I would love to paint these white walls red, he thought. With my bare hands. He began to walk.

He did not rush. He moved down the passage with long, easy steps, and as he walked, he took off his jacket. He folded it once and dropped it on the floor beside the wall. Then he took hold of one cuff and rolled the sleeve back over his forearm, slow and neat. Then the other.

His eyes never left Shemmel’s face. Shemmel’s smile faded. ”I see,” he said. ”You are ready to fight.”

”Yes.”

”I am sorry to disappoint you.” He sighed, almost kindly. ”I did not come here to fight. I came to kill you. Only then can I have the young miss.” His voice dropped. ”She has to be mine. I want her.”

Viktor said nothing. He was already close enough. Shemmel’s hand went into his jacket.

It came out fast, with a gun in it. It was long and black, with a thick silencer screwed onto the barrel, and it swung up in a smooth, practiced line. He had done this many times. He was very good at it.

He was not as fast as Viktor. Viktor’s left hand struck the wrist hard, and the gun flew out of Shemmel’s fingers. It spun across the stone floor and clattered against the far wall. Shemmel stared at his empty hand.

Viktor could have picked up the gun. He could have ended it in one sound.

He did not want that. A bullet was too easy. A bullet was a quick door out of the world. This man had come here to take his wife, and Viktor wanted him to feel every second of it.

He stepped in and hit him.

The first blow landed under the ribs, with all his weight behind it, and the air went out of Shemmel in a rough grunt. The second came across his jaw. His head snapped sideways. His long hair came loose and fell over his face.

For one breath, Shemmel stood bent over, gasping. Then he came up swinging.

He was big, and he was strong. He hit like a man who had been trained, and the first punch caught Viktor on the cheek and made his teeth ring. The second landed in his stomach.

Viktor staggered back. Shemmel followed him, fast, forgetting his foot. He drove a shoulder into Viktor’s chest, and they both went crashing into the wall.

They tore at each other. Fists, elbows, knees. A hand closed around Viktor’s collar and slammed his head against the wall. He drove his forehead into Shemmel’s nose and felt something give.

Blood ran down the purple suit in a bright line. Shemmel snarled and swung again, and Viktor ducked, and the fist smashed into the stone and left a smear of red.

They grunted and breathed and cursed. The sounds echoed down the empty hall like a drum.

Inside the lab, Sienna heard it.

She had been crouched behind the table with the files pressed against her ribs. Now she rose, slowly, and listened. The noise of the fight was dull and heavy, and it did not stop.

Aliya looked at her, wide-eyed.

Sienna did not wait. She crossed the floor, and Aliya hurried behind her, and together they pushed the steel door open and stepped out into the passage.

The light was bright and hard.

Viktor and Shemmel were locked together near the middle of the hall, swaying and crashing. Both of them were bleeding. Viktor’s shirt was torn, and a cut ran along his eyebrow. Shemmel’s beard was dark with blood. His purple suit was ruined.

Sienna’s hand flew to her mouth. Viktor. He was losing a little. She could see it. He was favoring his left side, and his breath came hard.

Then Shemmel’s foot slipped.

It was the injured one, the one she had stepped on. It slid on the stone, and for one half second his whole body leaned the wrong way. It was all Viktor needed. He ripped his arm free and drove his fist into the middle of that bearded face with everything he had.

The sound was awful.

Shemmel’s head flew back. His knees gave. He staggered, and his hand clawed at the wall, and his eyes went wide and unfocused. Blood poured into them. He blinked it away, again and again, but it only ran thicker. He could not see.

Viktor stood over him, panting.

Then he turned.

His eyes found Sienna in the doorway. They were wild and bright. He crossed the floor in three steps and took her hand in his bloody one, hard, and pulled her to him. His other arm swept around her shoulders.

She felt the files crackle against her chest. She clutched them with her free hand, flat against her gown. ”We go,” Viktor said. His voice was rough. ”Now.”

Aliya was right behind them, a step back. Her face was white and tight. She did not say a word.