Chapter 9 - The Trial of Viktor
Three weeks later, the rain had returned to Washington, turning the slate streets around the Federal District Court into black, reflective mirrors.
At 2:00 p.m., a fleet of three black Cadillac Escalades pulled up to the curb outside the side entrance of the courthouse on Constitution Avenue.
The doors opened simultaneously, and eight men in dark three-piece suits stepped out onto the wet sidewalk, their hands resting inside their jacket lapels as they formed a double perimeter around the center vehicle.
Roman stepped out first. He looked imposing in a dark charcoal pinstripe suit, a black wool overcoat draped over his broad shoulders, his shadow-black Kimber concealed in an armpit holster beneath his vest.
He turned and offered his hand to the woman stepping out behind him.
Josephine stepped onto the rain-slick pavement.
She was wearing a custom-tailored suit of dark navy wool—a suit that had been crafted by Roman’s personal tailor in Georgetown over three emergency fittings. It was cut to fit her size eighteen frame with absolute precision, the jacket broadening her already deep shoulders, the waist nipped in just enough to emphasize the powerful, broad flare of her hips, the trousers falling in clean, unbroken lines over her heavy black leather pumps.
Her auburn hair was styled into a sleek, elegant chignon at the crown of her head, secured with a platinum pin shaped like a serpent—a gift from Roman’s private vault three days prior.
Beside her walked Marko, carrying a heavy leather briefcase containing the depositions.
As they entered the marble rotunda of the courthouse, a group of five men stepped out from the elevators near the grand staircase.
At their center was Viktor Tierney.
Viktor was fifty-two years old, thin, with sharp, fox-like features, dark hair slicked back with scented oil, and a four-thousand-dollar Italian suit that looked loose on his narrow frame. He was flanked by two high-priced defense attorneys and two heavy-set guards from the Philadelphia dock union.
Viktor stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Roman.
Then his eyes drifted to the woman walking beside his cousin.
Viktor had seen the security photos. He had read the reports from his three failed contractors—the three men currently serving twenty-year sentences in a federal penitentiary after Marko had anonymously delivered them to the FBI with three kilograms of unregistered C4 explosives in their trunk.
He had expected a domestic worker. A oversized nanny in a sweat-stained apron.
He did not expect this woman—this massive, elegant monument of navy wool and silver, walking beside Roman Tierney with the calm, measured stride of a general reviewing her troops.
"Roman," Viktor said, his voice thin and slightly shrill against the high marble ceilings of the rotunda. "You brought your... staff to the grand jury hearing?"
Roman didn't stop walking until he was three feet from his cousin. The eight security guards behind him shifted their stances, their leather shoes squeaking softly on the wet marble.
"I brought my partner, Viktor," Roman said, his voice echoing off the carved pillars like a roll of distant thunder.
Viktor’s eyes flashed with a mixture of fear and disgust. He looked Josephine up and down, taking in her deep chest, her broad hips, and the cold, gray iron of her gaze.
"You traded up, did you?" Viktor sneered, his voice dropping so only the inner circle could hear. "From a delicate girl who knew her place to a... a dockworker in a dress?"
Before Roman could move—before his hand could even reach for the lapel of his overcoat—Josephine stepped forward.
She did not draw a weapon. She did not raise her voice.
She simply stepped into Viktor’s personal space—one single, heavy, two-hundred-pound step that brought her shoulder three inches from his chest.
Viktor instinctively took a step back, his thin leather soles slipping on the polished marble.
"Mr. Tierney," Josephine said, her voice dropping into that low, resonant register that carried through the entire rotunda. "In 2019, I dislocated the shoulder of a deputy commissioner who weighed eighty pounds more than you do. If you speak about Roman’s late wife—or about me—again in this building, I will take your right hip, turn it forty-five degrees to the left, and drop you onto this marble floor hard enough to split your tailor-made trousers."
She didn't raise her hands. She simply stood there, broad, deep, and immovable as a mountain, her gray eyes staring down into his with an absolute, terrifying certainty.
Viktor’s face went entirely white. He looked at her broad shoulders, looked at the way her navy wool jacket showed no hint of weakness, and then looked at his two Philadelphia guards.
Neither of them moved. Both guards were staring at the floorboards, having already heard the stories about the brass lamp base in Foxhall Crescent.
Viktor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing behind his silk tie. He turned on his heel without saying another word and hurried toward the courtroom doors, his two lawyers scrambling to keep up with him.
Roman watched his cousin retreat, then turned his head to look at Josephine.
His pale blue eyes were bright with a dark, fierce pride.
May you like
"You didn't use the hip-drop," Roman whispered near her ear.
"It wasn't necessary," she said, adjusting the lapels of her navy jacket with a light flick of her fingers. "Rule Six, Roman: never waste leverage on a man who is already falling."
