A sudden, heavy crash echoed from the dark aisle behind Silas.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom, moving with terrifying speed.

Declan Rourke slammed Silas into the concrete wall.

The sound of cracking bone echoed through the damp cellar.

Silas dropped the gun, his breath escaping in a sharp hiss.

Declan did not stop.

He threw Silas against the iron wine racks, sending bottles of vintage red crashing to the floor.

The dark liquid pooled like blood around their boots.

Declan gripped Silas by the throat, his scarred face twisted in rage.

“You touch her again, and I will feed you to the river piece by piece,” Declan growled.

“Let him go, Declan.”

The voice was calm, precise, and entirely devoid of emotion.

Roman Vescari stepped out of the shadows near the entrance of the cellar.

He wore a grey wool overcoat, completely dry, and carried a sleek silver automatic.

His dark hair was combed back, and his eyes scanned the room in a single, efficient motion.

“We need him alive to send a message to Victor,” Roman said.

Declan did not let go immediately.