Chapter 7 - A Desperate Negotiation In The Middle Of Chaos
The grand ballroom emptied with terrifying speed. Two hundred of the city’s most powerful people rushed through the mahogany doors, keeping their heads down, desperate to escape the gravitational pull of Sylvester Stallone. They left behind their expensive coats, their half-empty champagne flutes, and any shred of dignity they possessed. Within three minutes, the massive, opulent room was entirely silent, save for the soft dripping of water from the shattered flower vase.
Vivienne Cross stood alone in the center of the marble floor, a solitary figure in a ruined crimson gown. She was surrounded by the ten Syndicate soldiers who had stepped out of the shadows, their eyes fixed on her with cold, professional detachment. Sylvester Stallone stood a few feet away, watching the last of the guests scramble out the doors.
"Charles!" Vivienne screamed suddenly, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings as she saw her husband slipping out with the crowd. "Charles, don't leave me!"
Her husband didn't turn back. He disappeared into the lobby, abandoning her to the wolves. Vivienne collapsed onto her knees, the cold marble shocking her fair skin. She began to weep, deep, ugly sobs that tore from her chest. Her arrogance had been entirely stripped away, leaving only raw, primal terror.
Sylvester watched her cry for a moment before gesturing to two of his men. "Pick her up."
The soldiers moved with mechanical efficiency. They gripped Vivienne by her upper arms, hauling her roughly to her feet. She struggled weakly, her designer heels slipping on the wet marble, but the men held her in an iron grip.
"Where are you taking me?" Vivienne panicked, her American accent shrill and breathy. "Please, Mr. Stallone. I beg you. I'll do anything. I'll sign over my company. I'll give you everything!"
"You will," Sylvester agreed calmly, walking past her toward a set of private, concealed doors at the back of the ballroom. "But not here. The lobby is too public for a proper conversation."
He pushed open the concealed door, revealing a dimly lit, luxurious private corridor. The soldiers dragged Vivienne forward, following their boss. She stumbled along, the heavy fabric of her evening gown catching on her heels. The transition from the bright, golden light of the gala to the shadowed, heavily secured corridor felt like descending into the underworld.
"I have connections," Vivienne tried desperately, her mind racing for a lifeline as she was dragged down the hall. "The Governor... the Chief of Police. If I disappear, they will look for me. There will be questions!"
Sylvester didn't look back, but a low, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. "The Governor is currently sitting in his mansion, drinking scotch I imported, worrying about the photos I possess of him in a rather compromising position in Monaco. The Chief of Police works for me."
Vivienne’s heart plummeted. The world she thought she controlled was entirely an illusion. The men she thought were her peers were merely employees of the man she had poured a drink on.
Sylvester stopped in front of heavy oak doors adorned with gold trim. He pushed them open, stepping into a massive, soundproof VIP room. The room was dark, lit only by the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a single crystal lamp on a massive mahogany desk.
"Put her in the chair," Sylvester ordered.
May you like
The men shoved Vivienne into a heavy leather armchair in front of the desk. She sank into the plush leather, her diamond bracelets catching the faint light. Sylvester walked around the desk and sat down in the high-backed executive chair. He leaned back, steepling his large, scarred fingers together, and stared at her in the dim light.
"Now," Sylvester said softly, the silence of the room amplifying the danger in his voice. "Let us discuss the price of a ruined jacket."
