Chapter 8 - The Wolf of Chicago
Julian kicked the SUV door open, stepping out into the freezing rain and blinding fog like a dark god of destruction.
The highway was a warzone. Fire burned from the destroyed lead escort, casting demonic red light across the wet concrete. Volkov’s mercenaries opened fire instantly, but Julian didn't flinch. He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, stepping behind the armored door and firing short, lethal bursts from his submachine gun.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Three mercenaries fell instantly, their bodies dropping into the highway slush.
Marco and two surviving Rossi guards stepped up beside their Don, forming a lethal wall of steel around the SUV. The sound of heavy gunfire echoed off the concrete sound barriers like thunder.
From behind a dark van fifty yards away, Viktor Volkov stepped out, holding a heavy rifle, his face twisted in psychotic triumph.
"JULIAN!" Volkov roared over the gunfire. "Give up the girl! Give me the old man's ledger, and I'll let you bleed out in peace!"
Julian dropped his empty magazine, slamming a fresh one into place with a sharp metallic clatter. He stepped out from behind the SUV's door, moving directly into the open rain, completely indifferent to the bullets whipping past his coat.
"You touched my city, Viktor," Julian called out, his voice smooth, cold, and carrying effortlessly through the storm. "You threatened my grandfather. And you made my woman cry."
Julian raised his weapon, his hazel eyes locking onto Volkov through the haze.
"There is no negotiation."
Julian advanced alone, firing with terrifying precision. Every shot found its mark. Mercenaries crumbled before his advance like paper figures. Volkov’s triumph turned to sheer panic as he saw the monster he had unleashed—Julian was not fighting for territory or money; he was fighting with the feral, apocalyptic rage of a man protecting his mate.
Within three minutes, the highway fell dead silent.
Twisted bodies lay strewn across the asphalt. The remaining mercenaries had fled into the dark woods beside the highway.
Viktor Volkov lay on his back near the guardrail, his leg shattered by a bullet, clutching his bleeding chest as he backed away like a wounded rat.
Julian walked up to him slowly, his polished shoes stepping through puddles of rainwater mixed with blood. He lowered his empty gun, pulling his sleek 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster.
"Julian... please," Volkov gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "We can share... the ports... the unions... name your price!"
Julian stood over him, looking down with cold, emotionless eyes.
"My price," Julian whispered, raising the pistol, "was paid three weeks ago... in a bowl of tomato soup."
BANG.
Julian didn't look back as Volkov went limp. He holstered his gun, turned on his heel, and strode rapidly back to the armored SUV.
He ripped the rear door open, dropping to his knees on the slick road, his hands reaching into the dark cabin.
"Elena!" he called out, his voice cracking with rare, desperate emotion. "Elena!"
Elena crawled out from under the seat, her green velvet dress soaked in rain, and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Julian... oh God, Julian..." she wept, feeling his warm blood and the cold rain mixing on his suit jacket.
May you like
Julian wrapped his powerful arms around her, lifting her bodily against his chest, kissing her wet hair, her forehead, her cheeks, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
"I’m here," he growled, his body shaking with adrenaline and relief. "I'm here, my sweet girl. You're safe. It's over."
