My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 116

Chapter 116: The Butcher of Iron Street

[Ethan’s POV]

The freezing rain finally stopped an hour before dawn, leaving behind a thick, suffocating fog that rolled off the Dâmbovița River and swallowed the streets of Bucharest.

We moved like ghosts through the gray mist. I kept us off the main roads, navigating through narrow service alleys and broken chain-link fences. Claire stayed right on my heels, her reinforced briefcase clutched tightly to her chest. She was exhausted, shivering in her damp tactical gear, but she didn’t complain once.

"Two blocks," Claire whispered, checking her encrypted phone under the cover of her jacket. "Strada Fierului. Iron Street."

"Keep your eyes open," I said, my hand resting on the grip of my Glock. "If Jake came this way bleeding, the Lupii might have tracked him here too."

We crossed a deserted intersection, the fog muffling the sound of our boots. Iron Street lived up to its name. It was a desolate stretch of abandoned foundries and metalworking shops, their towering smokestacks piercing the fog like dead trees.

Number 42 was a squat, concrete building with reinforced steel shutters over the windows. A faded, peeling sign above the door read Măcelărie—Butcher Shop.

"A butcher," Claire muttered, staring at the building. "Fitting for a black-market clinic."

"Stay behind me," I ordered.

I approached the heavy metal door. It was locked, but the locking mechanism was old. I drew a slim titanium pry bar from my tactical vest, wedged it into the doorframe, and applied pressure. With a sharp crack, the deadbolt gave way.

I pushed the door open, sweeping my flashlight and my weapon into the room.

The front of the shop was exactly what it claimed to be: a butcher’s storefront. Stainless steel counters, empty meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, and a faint smell of bleach and old blood. But the heavy plastic curtain leading to the back room was drawn shut, and a sliver of harsh, fluorescent light spilled out from underneath it.

I moved silently across the tiled floor, Claire right behind me. I reached the plastic curtain, took a breath, and ripped it aside, stepping through with my gun raised.

"Don’t move!" I barked in Romanian.

The back room was a makeshift operating theater. A stainless steel table sat in the center under a battery of bright surgical lights. Cabinets lined the walls, stuffed with gauze, IV bags, and stolen medical supplies.

Standing at a metal sink, scrubbing his hands with iodine, was a short, balding man in a blood-stained surgical apron. He froze, his eyes darting to the barrel of my Glock.

"I don’t want any trouble," the man said in heavily accented English, slowly raising his dripping hands. "Take the painkillers. Take the morphine. Just leave me be."

"We’re not here to rob you, Dr. Grigori," I said, keeping the gun leveled at his chest. I stepped fully into the room, allowing Claire to enter behind me.

Grigori’s eyes flicked to Claire, then to the briefcase, and finally back to me. He swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

"We’re looking for a patient," I said, my voice cold and flat. "An American. Tall, dark hair, probably wearing a filthy trench coat. He came in here a few hours ago with a severe laceration to his left side."

Grigori’s face went completely pale. The color drained from his cheeks so fast I thought he was going to pass out. He took a step back, pressing himself against the sink.

"No," Grigori whispered, shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no. I don’t know anything about an American. You need to leave."

"Don’t lie to me," I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. I grabbed him by the collar of his bloody apron and slammed him against the tiled wall. "He was here. I can smell the fresh blood on your table. Where did he go?"

"You don’t understand!" Grigori choked out, his eyes wide with absolute terror. "If I talk about him, he will know! He sees everything! He hears everything!"

"He’s a man, Grigori, not a god," I growled.

"He is not a man!" the doctor practically screamed, his voice cracking. "I have patched up cartel bosses! I have pulled bullets out of Russian mafia hitmen! But that... that thing that walked into my clinic tonight... it wasn’t human!"

I loosened my grip slightly, exchanging a quick glance with Claire.

Claire stepped forward, setting her briefcase on a metal counter. She popped the latches and opened it, revealing the neat stacks of untraceable euros.

"Doctor," Claire said, her voice calm, soothing, and perfectly measured. It was the same voice she used to negotiate multi-million dollar logistics contracts for Vanguard. "My associate is losing his patience. But I am a businesswoman. We are not with the Lupii. We are not the police. We are looking for our friend. Tell us what happened, tell us where he went, and you can take fifty thousand euros and disappear before the syndicate even knows we were here."

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