Chapter 7 - SHOWDOWN IN THE GREENHOUSE
Gregor Antonov knew something was wrong the moment he pushed open the rotting wooden door of the old greenhouse.
The air inside smelled of damp earth and crushed ivy. The motion sensor on the northern wall hadn't clicked when he approached—a mechanical impossibility unless the grid had been manually bypassed from the master terminal.
His hand dropped instantly to the Glock holstered beneath his tactical jacket.
"You're out of position, Gregor," a voice echoed from the shadows of the rusted iron rafters.
Gregor didn't flinch. He slowly turned around.
Damian Volkov stepped out from behind a massive stone planter, his hands empty, his dark coat billowing slightly in the morning draft.
"Boss," Gregor said, his voice entirely devoid of panic. He didn't even try to reach for his burner phone or deny the treason. "I wondered how long it would take you to look at the ledger entries."
"Four years," Damian said, walking slowly toward him, stopping ten feet away. "Four years of trusting you with my mother’s life, while you were taking blood money from the man who put her in that chair."
Gregor let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Moreau offered a partnership, Damian. You wanted to legitimize the family—turn us into real estate moguls and shipping magnates. You forgot what built this empire. Blood, iron, and fear. Moreau remembered."
"Moreau is a parasite," Damian said coldly. "And you traded your brother's memory to become his lapdog."
"My brother died because you were weak!" Gregor suddenly roared, his mask of professional calm shattering into raw, jagged fury as he drew his pistol with terrifying speed.
But Damian was faster.
Before Gregor’s barrel could clear leather, a deafening crack echoed through the glass-paneled greenhouse. A bullet tore through Gregor’s right shoulder, spinning him violently to the side and sending his Glock clattering across the concrete floor.
Gregor hit the dirt, clutching his shattered shoulder, blood pouring between his fingers. He gasped for air, his face twisting in agony, but a dark, defiant smirk remained on his lips.
"You think... you won?" Gregor spat, coughing up a streak of red. "Look at your phone, Damian. Check the bunker feed."
Damian’s blood ran cold.
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Without breaking eye contact, Damian pulled his satellite phone from his pocket. The emergency security alert was flashing red.
Unauthorized entry detected: Medical Bunker Level 2.
