Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Fixer
Above ground, the ballroom was a scene of utter devastation.
The police sirens were wailing in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Roman Sokolov stalked through the smoke and debris like a phantom.
His men had secured the perimeter, killing or capturing the rest of the rogue assassins.
Only Julian Cross remained.
The fixer was bleeding from a gunshot wound to his shoulder, limping toward the grand foyer.
He thought he had slipped away in the chaos.
He reached for the golden handles of the main front doors.
"Going somewhere, Julian?" a voice asked from the shadows of the grand staircase.
Julian froze.
He turned slowly, raising his empty pistol, but his hands were shaking.
Roman stepped into the moonlight filtering through the shattered windows.
He was covered in dust and blood, but his posture was perfect.
"You miscalculated," Roman said quietly, walking down the marble steps.
"I calculated just fine," Julian spat, coughing up blood.
"Maroni offered me ten million to plant that device and take over your territory."
"Maroni is a fool, and so are you," Roman replied.
"You really thought a little girl wouldn't notice a grown man plotting treason in the hallway?"
Julian laughed weakly.
"It was just bad luck, Roman."
"No," Roman said, stopping three feet away from the traitor.
"It was arrogance."
"You look right past the people who clean your floors and serve your drinks."
"You thought they were invisible."
Roman raised his silver pistol and aimed it directly at Julian’s chest.
"They see everything, Julian."
Roman pulled the trigger twice.
The deafening blasts echoed through the foyer.
Julian Cross fell backward, crashing onto the beautiful, blood-stained marble floor.
The fixer’s eyes went wide, and then they went perfectly blank.
May you like
Roman stepped over the body without a second glance.
He had one last piece of trash to take out.
