Chapter 9: The Chase in the Grand Hall
For three agonizing seconds, no one moved. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with deafening resonance. Then, Custa turned on his heel and began to run down the long, carpeted corridor toward the front foyer, his bare feet slapping rhythmically against the floorboards.
"Catch him!" Eleanor hissed, standing up so fast her tea cup rattled against the saucer.
Viktor didn't hesitate. With explosive speed for a fifty-year-old man, he launched himself down the hallway, his long stride eating up the distance in seconds. Custa’s small legs pumped as fast as they could, his blond hair flying behind him, but the massive oak front doors were still fifty yards away.
Just as the boy reached the base of the grand staircase, Viktor’s heavy hand clamped down on the collar of his light blue button-up shirt, hoisting him effortlessly into the air. Custa let out a sharp, frightened cry, kicking his legs uselessly as Viktor pulled him backward against his chest.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Custa screamed—the first time he had truly screamed in his entire life, breaking the rigid discipline of the household with raw, primal panic.
Viktor held him firmly, ignoring the thrashing limbs and the desperate tears streaming down the toddler's face. He carried the struggling boy back into the library, where Eleanor was waiting by the window, her hands tightly gripping the silver teapot handle.
"Quiet!" Viktor commanded, his voice booming through the cavernous room, carrying an authority that finally shocked the boy into silence. Custa slumped against Viktor’s muscular chest, his breathing ragged and shallow, his chest heaving beneath the gray wool vest.
Viktor set the boy down on the leather armchair, kneeling in front of him so their eyes were level. The anger had vanished from Viktor's face, replaced by a grim, exhausted resignation.
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"You heard what your grandmother said," Viktor spoke softly, his voice dangerously low. "The world outside wants to destroy everything we are. If you run, you don't find freedom, Custa. You find people who will use you as a weapon against your own blood. Do you want that?"
Custa looked at the scarred, powerful man who had terrorized and protected him in equal measure. The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve, his lower lip trembling. "I want Mama," he whispered, breaking the hearts of both adults in a way no legal brief or financial threat ever could.
