Chapter 2 - Flatline
The piercing shriek of the flatline shattered the heavy silence of the ICU. Nurses and trauma surgeons burst through the double doors before Viktor could process the sound, their gloved hands instantly descending on Elena’s frail frame. Shouts of ""Epinephrine, one milligram!"" and ""Clear the room!"" filled the clinical space, but Viktor stood rooted to the linoleum floor, a towering wall of ivory linen and rage.
""Mr. Rostov, you need to step back!"" a doctor yelled, already beginning manual chest compressions. The rhythmic thumping against Elena’s shattered ribs sent a sickening jolt through Viktor’s chest.
Marcus grabbed Viktor’s arm, an act of sheer desperation. ""Boss, let them work. If you kill them now, she dies.""
Viktor blinked, the fog of slaughter lifting just enough to let reason claw its way back. His eyes fell on Elena’s pale face, slack beneath an oxygen mask, her dark eyelashes motionless against translucent skin. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped away from the bed, his knuckles cracking as his fists clenched. ""If she stops breathing permanently, Doctor,"" Viktor whispered, his voice quiet enough that only the medical team nearest him heard, ""none of you walk out of this hospital.""
He backed through the doors into the dimly lit corridor, where twelve of his personal enforcers stood stationed, submachine guns concealed beneath tailored coats. The hallway was locked down; the floor above and below were emptied by Rostov private security. Marcus held up the tablet again, the screen illuminating his weathered face.
Viktor snatched the device. His gaze dragged across the glowing red interface. The security terminal on the penthouse’s third level—a private floor accessible only by blood relatives and executive council members—had logged the gate bypass at 21:14. The attack occurred at 21:16.
The thumbprint confirmation flashed on the screen alongside an employee code. It did not belong to a bodyguard or a housekeeper. The identifier belonged to Alexei, Viktor’s foster brother and the syndicate's chief financial architect.
""Where is he?"" Viktor asked. The question was devoid of anger, flat and hollow like an execution order.
""He went to the river docks forty minutes ago,"" Marcus replied, checking his sidearm. ""Claimed he was securing the cash reserves before the feds moved in on the shooting.""
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Viktor glanced through the small window of the ICU doors. The doctors were charging the defibrillator paddles. One, two, three—clear. Elena’s body arched off the mattress.
Before the monitor could show a pulse, Viktor turned on his heel toward the elevator. ""Bring the heavy cars,"" he said. ""Alexei doesn't leave the city alive.""
