The heavy silence in the Grand Continental penthouse ballroom was shattered only by the ragged, terrified breathing of the Russian elite. Dozens of glowing red laser sights remained perfectly steady, painting the chests and foreheads of Ivanov, Petrov, and every Bratva loyalist foolish enough to have drawn a weapon. They were entirely boxed in.
Ivanov, the man who had just been toasting to his new empire, looked like a cornered rat. His hand, still hovering near his concealed weapon, trembled violently. He looked at Valerius, searching for any microscopic sign of weakness, any hint that the King of the Thorne Syndicate was bluffing.
He found absolutely nothing. Valerius was a towering monument of cold, calculated death.
"You cannot do this, Thorne," Ivanov stammered, the heavy microphon
