Chapter 4 - The Safe House
My hands shook violently as I stared at the photograph of my shattered apartment door.
"They know who I am," I whispered, the reality of my nightmare fully setting in.
Viktor snatched the phone from my hand and examined the screen.
"Pierce's men," Viktor confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion.
"How do they know where I live?" I cried, panic rising in my throat.
"You left the restaurant with me," Viktor said, forcing himself to stand up.
"In my world, that makes you an accomplice."
He groaned in pain, clutching the bloody rag against his shoulder.
"We cannot stay here."
"I have no money, no car, and now I have no home," I sobbed.
Viktor reached into his other pocket and tossed a heavy silver key ring at my feet.
"Pick it up," he ordered.
I bent down and grabbed the cold metal keys.
"I have a secondary safe house three blocks from here," Viktor explained, his breathing growing shallow.
"My accountant, Silas, holds a backup copy of the authorization document there."
"You want me to walk you there?" I asked, terrified of the dark streets outside.
"No, I want you to stitch my arm first," Viktor said casually.
He pulled a small emergency medical kit from the inside pocket of his ruined jacket.
He tossed it to me and began shrugging off his coat.
"I am a waitress, not a doctor," I protested, my stomach churning at the sight of his torn flesh.
"You will figure it out," Viktor grunted, biting down on a leather glove.
For the next five minutes, I forced a curved needle through the skin of a mafia boss in a filthy hallway.
Viktor did not make a single sound, though sweat poured down his pale face.
When I tied the final knot, he stood up and put his coat back on.
"If you get me that document, I will pay off your mother's medical debt tonight," Viktor promised.
I looked at him, completely stunned.
"How do you know about my debt?"
"I own the hospital that treated her," he smirked.
We slipped out the back window of the tenement and moved silently through the shadows.
We avoided the main streets, sticking to the alleys filled with garbage and stray cats.
Finally, we reached a nondescript brownstone building with heavy iron bars on the windows.
"Use the silver key," Viktor whispered, keeping watch on the street.
I jammed the key into the heavy oak door and turned it until the lock clicked.
We slipped inside, entering a luxurious, dimly lit foyer filled with antique furniture.
"Silas?" Viktor called out quietly.
There was no answer.
Viktor drew his pistol and gestured for me to stay behind him.
We crept into the expansive living room, and my blood immediately turned to ice.
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Silas, a frail older man in a tweed suit, was tied to a chair in the center of the room.
His throat had been brutally slashed, and a massive pool of blood soaked into the Persian rug.
