Chapter 9 - The Final Strike
Kayla refused to let the medics touch Gunther until she had cleaned the wound herself.
She sat him down in the ruined bathroom and carefully removed his bloody shirt.
The bullet had only grazed the muscle, but it was bleeding heavily.
She moved with the same quiet efficiency she used to clean his floors, wiping away the blood and applying a tight pressure bandage.
Gunther watched her face intently, completely ignoring the pain in his shoulder.
"You should be terrified right now," Gunther murmured.
"I am," Kayla admitted, securing the medical tape.
"But I am more terrified of losing you."
Gunther reached up and touched her cheek with his uninjured arm.
"This world is too dark for you, Kayla."
"I am dragging you into a war zone, and I almost got you killed tonight."
"Maybe you should take your brother and go somewhere safe."
"I will fund your lives forever."
Kayla stopped working and stared directly into his eyes.
"Do not you dare push me away," she said fiercely.
"I survived poverty, I survived sixteen-hour shifts, and I survived a Russian hit squad in a ventilation shaft."
"I am not fragile, Gunther."
"And I am not leaving you."
Gunther felt a powerful surge of awe for the woman standing in front of him.
He pulled her down for a deep, desperate kiss.
"Stay here with Victor," Gunther commanded softly.
"I have to finish this."
He grabbed a fresh shirt, reloaded his weapon, and walked out into the night.
Victor’s men had located Volkov at a private safehouse near the docks.
Gunther did not bring a strike team this time.
He went alone.
He moved through the shadows of the shipping containers like a ghost, silently eliminating the guards stationed outside the warehouse.
He kicked in the side door and walked slowly into the dimly lit room.
Volkov was sitting at a table, counting stacks of cash, preparing to flee the city.
The Russian looked up, his eyes widening in pure shock as Gunther stepped into the light.
"Gunther," Volkov stammered, reaching for a weapon on the table.
Gunther did not hesitate.
He raised his weapon and fired a single shot.
The bullet struck Volkov in the chest, knocking him backward out of his chair.
Gunther walked over and looked down at the dying mob boss.
"You touched what was mine," Gunther said coldly.
"That was your final mistake."
Gunther turned his back and walked out of the warehouse, leaving the Russian syndicate completely decapitated.
The war was over.
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The city belonged entirely to him again.
But as he drove back to the estate in the early light of dawn, Gunther realized his empire needed to change.
