Chapter 22
Before Markov could recover his composure, the temperature in the immediate vicinity plummeted to absolute zero. Soren Blackwell stepped seamlessly out of the shadows, materializing directly behind Elodie. His broad, powerful shoulders entirely blocked the light, casting a long, imposing shadow over the Russian boss.
"Are you attempting to negotiate logistics with my wife in the middle of a ballroom, Viktor?" Soren asked. His deep, low voice rolled through the space, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
Markov took a heavy step backward, his rosy skin paling slightly at the sudden, terrifying proximity of the undisputed king of the underworld. His three bodyguards instinctively reached for their concealed weapons.
"Blackwell," Markov grunted, attempting to regain his footing. "This is a simple business discussion. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Does a mutually beneficial arrangement require the intimidation of the woman who owns this city?" Soren inquired, his cold, perceptive eyes locking onto Markov. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he gently placed his palms on Elodie’s waist, claiming her with fierce, proprietary devotion.
"I meant no disrespect," Markov lied, sweat beading on his forehead. "I simply wanted to finalize the donation tonight."
May you like
"Then we will finalize it in my study," Soren commanded smoothly. "Unless you prefer to finalize it on the marble floor."
The transition from the opulent, crowded ballroom to the soundproof, mahogany-paneled study was a journey from a sophisticated party into a lethal trap. Markov and his three bodyguards walked into the room, expecting a tense negotiation. They were profoundly mistaken.
