Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Velvet
The steam from the overhead industrial pipes curled around us like white ghosts, hissing against the subterranean chill of the boiler room.
My back was pressed flat against the cold steel beam. Nikolai Volkov stood ten feet away, the silver barrel of his pistol locked onto the center of my chest. His pale eyes were completely dead, hollowed out by a thirst for vengeance that had festered for years.
"I said take it off," Volkov repeated, his voice cold and flat over the rumble of the turbines.
My hands trembled as I reached behind my neck, my fingers finding the diamond snowflake clasp. But beneath my fear, an unexpected flare of primal defiance surged. Kamal had called me a trap. He had told me to be the teeth.
"You're pathetic, Nikolai," I said, stalling, my voice echoing off the concrete walls.
A flicker of irritation cracked his aristocratic composure. "What did you say?"
"You spent three years crying over your brother in Vienna," I said, forcing my chin high, my eyes boring directly into his. "You couldn't beat Kamal in business. You couldn't outbid him in Geneva. So you crawl through the shadows of my apartment building like a coward to steal a woman who doesn't even know your name."
Volkov’s pale face flushed with rage. He took three fast, aggressive strides forward, closing the distance to strike me across the face with the pistol barrel.
"You insolent little—"
BANG.
A bullet slammed through the iron handrail above our heads, sending hot sparks showering across Volkov's shoulder.
Volkov spun around, firing two rapid shots toward the stairwell.
From the shadows of the overhead catwalk, Kamal dropped like an avenging demon. He landed on the concrete floor with a heavy thud, his tuxedo jacket torn, blood staining the crisp white linen of his shirt near his collarbone. But his dark eyes burned with an animalistic fury so terrifying that even Volkov stepped back in instinctive shock.
Kamal didn't fire his weapon; he closed the distance before Volkov could level his gun again.
Kamal’s left hand struck Volkov’s wrist, knocking the silver pistol across the concrete floor where it skittered into the dark water of a floor drain. Kamal’s right fist followed with devastating, bone-splintering force, striking Volkov square in the jaw.
Volkov crashed back against a row of roaring steam valves, spitting blood onto the concrete. He reached into his coat, pulling a curved tactical blade that caught the orange emergency light.
"You should have stayed upstairs, Yilmaz!" Volkov snarled, lunging forward with a sweeping slash aimed at Kamal’s throat.
Kamal ducked beneath the blade, stepping into Volkov's guard, his elbow driving hard into the Russian's ribs with the dull crunch of breaking bone. But Volkov was relentless—he reversed the blade, slicing across Kamal's forearm. A thick ribbon of crimson soaked through Kamal's sleeve, splashing down onto the floor.
"Kamal!" I screamed.
Ignoring the wound, Kamal trapped Volkov’s knife arm against his chest, sweeping the Russian’s legs out from under him. Both men crashed onto the wet concrete. Kamal pinned Volkov by the throat with his forearm, his knee driving into Volkov’s chest until the Russian gasped for air, his face turning purple beneath the crushing weight.
"You touched her building," Kamal whispered, his voice a terrifying growl of raw, unhinged violence. "You sent your filth to watch her while she slept."
"Kill me..." Volkov wheezed, blood bubbling on his split lips, his fingers clawing uselessly at Kamal's forearm. "My men... already have the perimeter. You won't leave this island alive..."
"I don't need to leave the island alive," Kamal snarled, reaching behind his back and pulling a combat knife from his belt. "I only need you to die."
"Kamal, stop!"
My voice cut through the roaring machinery.
Kamal froze. The blade was hovering an inch above Volkov's eye. Slowly, like a beast fighting to pull itself out of a blood-fog, Kamal looked up at me.
His face was streaked with sweat and soot, blood dripping from his arm onto Volkov's ruined Brioni jacket. But when his eyes met mine, the murderous frenzy softened into raw, agonizing terror—terror that something had happened to me.
"Isa," he breathed, his voice cracking. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm whole," I said, stepping forward across the slick concrete, my hands outstretched. "Look at me. I'm untouched. Don't do this here. If you butcher him in the basement of the Met, you lose everything. Your empire, your freedom... me."
Kamal stared at me, his chest heaving like a wounded stallion. The words lose me seemed to hit him harder than any bullet.
Behind us, the heavy steel door at the top of the stairs banged open.
"Boss!" Tarik’s voice echoed down the stairwell, accompanied by the boots of six armed security men carrying tactical shotguns. "We cleared the lobby! NYPD tactical units are three blocks away and advancing through the blizzard!"
Kamal closed his eyes for a split second, regaining his icy control. When he opened them, the mafioso was back in command.
He drove the pommel of his combat knife hard into Volkov's temple. The Russian’s head snapped sideways, his eyes rolling back as he slumped unconscious onto the wet stone.
"Tie him," Kamal ordered Tarik coldly, rising to his full height. "Put him in the secondary van through the loading dock. He does not see the light of day until he tells me every single asset he owns in North America."
"Understood, Boss." Tarik’s men moved in with zip-ties and tactical hoods.
Kamal turned to me. His left arm was soaked in blood, his hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline crashing through his system. Without a word, he closed the distance between us, his uninjured arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me hard against his chest.
He buried his face into my hair, inhaling me with a shuddering, ragged breath that shook his entire frame.
May you like
"I have you," he whispered fiercely against my temple, his grip almost bruising in its intensity. "I have you. You're safe."
I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers knotting into his dark hair, pressing my tear-streaked face into his bloody shoulder. In the damp, violent underworld of the museum basement, wrapped in the arms of a ruthless killer, I felt safer than I had ever felt in my life.
