Not Knowing His Poor Ex Had Married A Mafia Boss, He Kicked Her At The Mall

The smell of brine and diesel hung heavy over Pier 42. Fog rolled off the black Atlantic water, creeping between stacked shipping containers like ghosts looking for a grave. Inside a rusted warehouse near the edge of the shipyard, Marcus Sterling sat on a wooden crate, his hands trembling violently around a lukewarm paper cup of coffee.

His silk tie was crooked. The three-thousand-dollar suit he wore had grease stains down the left thigh, and the cut on his cheek—sustained when Roman's men breached his private office four hours earlier—still oozed blood.

Across from him, seated in a pristine leather armchair imported specifically for the occasion, sat Viktor Petrov. Viktor was thirty-two, slender, with slicked-back blonde hair and pale eyes that had never learned the concept of mercy. He was peeling an apple with a silver switchblade, peeling it in one continuous, unbroken ribbon of red skin.

"You are shaking, Marcus," Viktor said in smooth, flawless English, his Russian accent faint, like a whisper over ice. "A man of your pedigree should not shake."

"You don't understand who he is," Marcus stammered, his teeth clicking against the rim of the cup. "Vance isn't just a businessman. He's a psychopath. He burned down three of my holding companies in two hours. He bought out my board of directors before lunch!"

Viktor sliced a thin sliver of apple, slid it into his mouth, and chewed slowly. "He bought your board because your board was cheap. He destroyed your holdings because you left them unprotected. And all of this... because of a girl?"

Marcus’s face flushed a deep, humiliating crimson. Even now, trapped in a cold warehouse surrounded by armed men in tactical gear, the sting of what had happened burned in his gut. "She was nobody! A stray dog I tossed aside! She worked at a department store, Viktor! She didn't have twenty dollars to her name when I threw her out of my apartment two years ago. How was I supposed to know she was sleeping with Vance?"

"She wasn't sleeping with him," Viktor remarked, pointing the tip of the switchblade at Marcus. "She is his wife. He married her. Publicly. Legally."

"He did it to mock me!" Marcus snapped, his voice cracking. "To show the city he could take my trash and make it gold!"

Viktor paused, his eyes narrowing into cold calculation. "You really are a fool, aren't you?"

Marcus blinked, startled. "What?"

"Roman Vance does not take trash. Roman Vance does not marry for vanity. If he married this girl, she holds something inside him that you were too stupid to see." Viktor closed the knife with a soft, ominous *click*. "And that makes her the only leverage that matters."

Before Marcus could answer, the warehouse door groaned open. A heavy-set man wearing a wool pea coat stepped inside, bringing the damp ocean wind with him. It was Grigori, Viktor’s chief enforcer.

"The western gate just went dark," Grigori said in Russian, his hand resting on the holster beneath his arm. "Cameras are looping. Two guards missed their check-in."

Viktor didn't jump. He stood gracefully, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. "So soon? Vance doesn't even wait for the sun to rise."

Marcus scrambled off the crate, spilling his coffee. "He's here? God, no—you said this location was secure! You promised me safe passage to Montreal!"

Viktor turned toward Marcus, his expression one of sheer disgust. "Shut your mouth, little banker. If Vance is here, he brought a team. A team leaves tire tracks. A team makes noise."

Suddenly, the warehouse was plunged into absolute darkness.

The generators hummed and died. The halogen lights flickered out, leaving only the silver ribbons of moonlight cutting through the cracked skylights high above.

"Night vision!" Grigori barked.

A sharp, concussive *crack* echoed through the building. The skylight shattered in an explosion of glass, and before the shards even hit the concrete floor, the muffled thump of silenced gunfire filled the void.

Marcus screamed, throwing himself beneath a row of wooden pallets. Through the gaps in the timber, he watched in terror as shadows descended from the rafters on high-tension ropes. They didn't shout. They didn't issue commands. They moved like wraiths in black carbon-fiber armor, their muzzle flashes illuminating the chaos in strobe-like bursts.

Petrov’s men returned fire, deafening Kalashnikov blasts ripping through the air, tearing into drywall and iron. But Vance’s operators had the angles. One by one, the Russian guards dropped, their weapons clattering uselessly against the concrete.

"Viktor!" Marcus shrieked, pressing his face into the dirt. "Help me!"

Viktor didn't look at Marcus. He drew a custom silver Makarov from his waistband, fired two deliberate shots toward the breach, and backed toward the rear exit, where a reinforced armored van was idling. "Leave the banker," Viktor commanded Grigori in a calm, lethal voice. "He served his purpose. He drew the dog out."

"Wait!" Marcus cried, scrambling on his hands and knees. "The codes! You need the encrypted flash drives!"

"I already cloned them two hours ago, you idiot," Viktor sneered through the darkness, stepping into the armored van. The heavy door slammed shut, and tires screeched against the wet pavement as the vehicle blasted through the rear corrugated steel gate, vanishing into the night.

The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Silence fell over the warehouse, save for the patter of falling rain and the low groans of dying men.

Footsteps echoed across the concrete. Heavy, deliberate, unhurried leather soles.

Marcus huddled beneath the pallets, his heart hammering against his ribs so violently he thought his chest would burst. The boots stopped inches from his face.

"Marcus," a voice said.

It wasn't Roman.

It was Silas.

A pair of hands hauled Marcus out from under the wood by the collar of his ruined suit, throwing him onto his back in the center of the kill zone. Standing over him were four heavily armed men, their laser sights painting red dots across Marcus’s forehead and heart.

Silas knelt down, tilting Marcus’s chin up with the barrel of a Glock.

"Mr. Vance sends his regards," Silas whispered softly. "And Mrs. Vance asked me to give you a message."

Marcus wept, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his lip. "Please... please, Silas, tell her I'm sorry! I didn't mean to kick her! It was a mistake! I was angry! I'll give her everything—my mother's jewelry, my remaining accounts—"

"Mrs. Vance doesn't want your money," Silas cut in coldly. "She wanted you to know that the shoes she wore that day were cheap. But the boots coming for your neck cost more than your life."