Phantom's Silent Oath

By Viktor A. King

**Presentation of "Phantom's Silent Oath" by Viktor A. King: A Love Story Immersed in the Heart of Chicago**

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,

Today, I am thrilled to introduce you to Viktor A. King's latest literary masterpiece, "Phantom's Silent Oath." What sets this novel apart is its remarkable ability to transport readers deep into the heart of the Windy City, where every street corner, every landmark, and every neighborhood comes alive with vivid authenticity.

Viktor A. King, an American author with a profound connection to Chicago, takes us on a journey that is not just a tale of love but an immersive exploration of the city itself. In "Phantom's Silent Oath," Chicago becomes more than just a backdrop; it becomes a living, breathing character in its own right.

With meticulous attention to detail, King infuses the story with references to iconic places, streets, and neighborhoods that are unmistakably Chicago. As you read, you will find yourself strolling down the historic Magnificent Mile, savoring delicacies in local eateries, and basking in the beauty of Millennium Park. The city's essence is so vividly portrayed that you can almost feel the pulse of Chicago's vibrant culture.

Amidst this backdrop, King introduces us to a trio of characters whose lives are deeply entwined, mirroring the complexities and contradictions of Chicago itself. Against the urban tapestry, a tender romance blossoms, adding a layer of warmth and authenticity to the narrative.

"Phantom's Silent Oath" is an invitation to explore Chicago from the inside out. It's a love letter to the city, a testament to the American spirit, and a story that immerses you completely into the sights, sounds, and emotions of Chicago.

Prepare to be swept away as you navigate the city's streets, guided by Viktor A. King's expert storytelling. "Phantom's Silent Oath" is more than a novel; it's an immersive journey through the heart and soul of Chicago, where love, ambition, and the city itself converge.

In conclusion, "Phantom's Silent Oath" is a remarkable achievement in literary storytelling, offering readers a chance to not just read about Chicago but to live and breathe it.

Thank you for embarking on this extraordinary literary adventure.

Publications

Liquid Balance 2019

Veil Of Shadows serialized novel

Stay Woke

Tacit Resonances

Black Red White Blood

Viktor A. King

I am delighted to introduce you to the author Viktor A. King, a familiar name in the literary universe known for terrifying readers with his horror novels. However, today we will venture into new territory for this New York-based author: the world of romance novels.

Viktor A. King was born and raised in New York City, a metropolis notorious for its frenetic energy and rich literary landscape. King gained fame through his psychological horror stories, often set in the dark and sinister streets of his beloved hometown. His horror novels have enthralled readers with their gripping suspense and unsettling subtext.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Viktor A. King
• Release date: Sep 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223146070

Book preview

COPYRIGHT 2021

Viktor A. King ©

Editions GRUPPO A.V. USA S.r.l.

Life of  STARS ®

Vat number 03624001206

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On July 17, 2021

Curator Viktor A. King ©

COPYRIGHT 2021

Viktor A. King ©

Editions GRUPPO A.V. USA S.r.l.

Life of  STARS ®

Vat number 03624001206

Reserved and filed rights

On July 17, 2021Curator Viktor A. King ©

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This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and events are either figments of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to real places or events or people who really exist or have existed is unintentional and purely coincidental.

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Start 03624001206, Life of STARS

Phantom's Silent Oath

VIKTOR A. KING

Acknowledgements,

To my past, far away, full of useful memories.

And to my daughters, joy of the future.

August 8, 2009

My dear friend, tonight I'd like to leave you an orange tulip on your window sill, just one in a clear vase on that window with the perpetually tight shutter, still wondering if you'll ever give me a break.

In reality, my day with the girls was a series of chases, grocery shopping, Lucy who peed in every corner of the house, on the table and in three places on the carpet, Anitha who cried because of her friends at the beach and how desperate she felt to be the older sister forced to play with the younger one, and still bedtime and Robertwho came home earlier than usual; so the tulip wouldn't have been able to buy it and neither would the transparent jar, and maybe you should just settle for a note through which I still ask you to listen to me and, perhaps, to wait for me.

Chicagois incredibly hot, and tonight I would love to go to one of those open-air cinemas, maybe the one in Millennium Park, with the illuminated Neptune and San Petronio protecting the young people sitting on the steps while they watch Totò on the big screen, I can imagine the Prince de Curtis sinking into a badly broken stuffed chair, in front of the carabinieri; and then strolling down the streets of Pavaglione, deserted in August.

Those same streets were not deserted that Christmas two and a half years ago, our last meeting.

I was a beautiful woman. A woman not very tall, not very thin, but beautiful for some inexplicable reason, her eyes, nose and mouth harmoniously combined, suggesting a gentle, polite soul, the proud bearing, with the brisk step of one who shyly goes through life for fear of being noticed. But I knew I was being watched, often, precisely because of that mixture of fragility and determination that suggested I wanted to be protected but not too much.

It was the evening of the 23rd of December 2006, in Chicagothe streets were full of busy people, intent on buying the last Christmas presents, and I was also waiting for my friend, at the corner of Magnificent Mile, looking at the Colmar ski suits displayed by Fini Sport, hoping that George would arrive soon, since he had worn a little coat paid for in those little stores for kids, and now the air was getting brisk at nightfall. We had made an early appointment, having the opportunity to fully enjoy the evening, strangely enough, because Anitha was still not happy at the idea of having dinner without her mother and Robertwas usually so busy. I had a shiver, I felt excited at the idea of walking through the streets of the Pavaglione, all decorated for Christmas, bumping into people laden with bags, and looking at every shop window to guess the tastes of friends and relatives.

Or maybe it was a thrill because soon we would have looked at each other and said goodbye, just like that, with a smile, maybe taken by the hand, but only for a while, more likely we would have walked close, looking at each other sometimes at our shoes, sometimes at our hands, warmed by the woolen gloves.

There he was, now I'd seen him jostle his way a bit through the people, to get out of the flow of those continuing down the street, and stop right in front of me.

George was tall, very tall, but not curved, he stood just in every inch, so to look at others from his peak, sometimes unreachable, broad shoulders, well formed chest, hands with long fingers, smooth, hairless and incredibly soft. He looked like a man who could bear the weight of life, of a family, of a career, but no, George had decided at the age of forty that he would always be twelve, and so his work was interesting but not oppressive, his family did not exist and life if it flowed pleasantly was welcome, otherwise it forced him to barricade himself in the empty apartment of his parents in the middle of the furniture of his childhood.

But to forgive him these imperfections, it was enough to stare into his green, bright, sharp eyes.

And so I did and I could never get enough. And I always forgave him because maybe that's what love is all about: knowing imperfections and forgiving them.

Always.

What a way to dress! You look like you stole your daughter's clothes. mocking, a tone I knew well.

In fact, mortified, I had to admit that the tight jeans and sneakers were not part of that sensual and strong-willed woman look that he liked so much, and I still hadn't taken off my coat, since I had actually stolen one of Anitha's wool sweaters with colored stripes and buttons on the shoulders.

But George was always doing this with me, perhaps it was his way of noticing me, or noticing me as simply not adequate for him, or he was just basically a conceited boor who could take full advantage of the resources of his job to satisfy his interests, clothes, books, comics, travel; unlike me, a housewife, with a daughter, and a husband who supported us both.

George hated my little girl, he had always refused to meet her, and he hated my husband so much too.

After a few friendly attempts, at the beginning of our relationship, a few evenings among a few people in which I had also dragged Robert because they could know and appreciate him, George had decided that my future boyfriend was dull, insignificant, almost irritating.

And so I had stopped leading him to the gallows, guillotined by my friends, deciding to lead my life on the side, intimately, for just the two of us.

At the beginning it worked, Robert and I played the role of misunderstood lovers, we spent our evenings at the cinema, or walking around Chicago, or reading pulp novels, but then, inevitably, more and more often, we found ourselves in front of the TV, in our pajamas, with few arguments, caricatures of what would have been ten years later, after the children, the job far away, the impending expenses, the dust on the furniture and on the bed.

And now I was just intent on dusting, but in a different bed.

George fixed my scarf, which he thought was badly knotted, and I let him do it, wide-eyed, because it was nice to feel his hands fixing me, making me a little bit his.

And meanwhile he stared at me, head tilted to the side, and sly eyes that knew.

George and I were lovers, for many years.

And this, in my opinion, was really unpleasant: unpleasant for the man who loved me, supported me, and at that moment was taking care of my daughter; unpleasant for me who didn't know how to lead my life and lived by instants, lying all the time and to everyone; and unpleasant for the other one, the lover, who had no certainty of being the favorite and the need to fix me a scarf to confirm that that afternoon I was his.

We headed towards Millennium Park, Magnificent Mile had turned into a mass of people moving together, a light drizzle was falling and the daylight had slowly faded away, leaving room for the hanging, glittering illuminations and the lights of the traffic, of the buses pulling up to the sidewalk, of mopeds darting between the passers-by crossing, of the smells of traffic, of roasted chestnuts in the usual kiosk under the portico in front of Calzedonia, of irritated or euphoric people jostling, clattering and intoning an exclamation when they found themselves in front of the Place and the imposing Christmas Tree.

We decided to go down to the Pavaglione and took refuge in one of the many little stores, to buy chocolates, and we laughed at the idea that there was an almost infinite variety, like people.

I chose a rectangular one, orange flavored, with fat putti drawn on the silver map, to take to Anitha, my sweet tooth, and others taken at random, perhaps coffee or hazelnut, and when asked why I chose so randomly, I shrugged my shoulders: I always did that and he knew it.

Then he led me to a new place, the former porno cinema had been ennobled, turning into one of the most fashionable places in Chicago, on two floors a bookstore and on the third a place with a vaguely French air.

Tables were joined and diners could take their seats next to each other, in absolute promiscuity, soup and red wine were served, just like in Paris, in a beautiful memory of Chez Louisette, in the Saint Ouen district, when I opened the doors and found a swarming two-story bisque and the voice of Edith Piaf singing la Vie en Rose.

We sat at the edge and ordered Marzemino by the glass and prosciutto.

Finally, we could hear each other's voices. So you're leaving for London on the 30th?

Robert had purchased a package for New Year's Eve, intent on throwing new strains on the extinguished fire of our love. Yeah, I've never been to London, I think I'll go visit the zoo right away, Anitha will be so happy! I pretended a little to be overjoyed myself, producing a wide smile, since the version I had given George was that I alone would go with the baby, to escape a lonely New Year's Eve.

The only constant was London and, perhaps, the zoo I would visit.

You must be crazy, by yourself, I don't know if you're even capable of taking the plane, in fact I don't know if you'll be able to tell the difference between the check-in and the restroom... and laughed.

Fool! I'll succeed just fine: with my French, my glasses, and my incredible ass. and I laughed too, knowing how right he was, but stepping into the role. In truth, my fondest hope would have been to be led by him to London, but I didn't have the courage to ask for anything.

I had learned little, until now, but I knew instinctively that asking questions of which you have no certainty about the answers is dangerous to one's own flickering happiness, especially if you long for affirmative answers.

I will probably attend a little party with my friends. Of course just friends of hers, all paired up, but I didn't have a pass to get in.

"Mmm interesting, what can I say, have fun! And Happy New Year! On my own right now, I've decided that I'm celebrating New Year's Eve, I like the place a lot, the food is simple but delicious, and the company is interesting enough.

So I'm going to get drunk and at midnight, I'm going to make like the lovers and give you a kiss!"

In love? he asked, deliberately emphasizing the word and arching an eyebrow, as if he were Hercule Poirot standing before the decisive evidence to incriminate the murderer.

Relentless continued:

We are not in love, don't be mistaken when you speak.

Oh God, I would have killed him, strangling him with ham fat, there in that instant, in front of the astonished club.

I didn't want to drown without having tried a few strokes, so I replied with a nice proud tone and my cheeks slightly puckered, thanks to the red wine I had just swallowed for courage:

I wanted to say that the last time I was at your house, you were so generous that you almost seemed like a lover, but maybe I was stunned, she concluded bitterly.

You see you're exaggerating, we don't make love, and he said it like he was talking about a baby's regurgitation, I fuck you, whenever and however I want, and you're such a failure that you're always getting it on, maybe imagining who knows what.

There, now he had ruined everything. In fact, if I remember correctly, I learned to swim late, that I was already a girl. I lowered my gaze, now the red paper napkin and its irregular contours seemed very fascinating; maybe I hadn't noticed that I had isolated myself for a while so I felt George caressing my arm: Monique?, with a suave tone, So when does the countdown begin?, the usual pussycat was back, with his sudden jumps in mood he could teach the most experienced jugglers.

I decided to smile, after all, why ruin a good night, I knew him and he could never surprise me.

We liked Lars Von Trier and Lansdale, Stephen King and Dylan Dog, we chatted amiably, sipping wine, like the old friends we were, and we laughed as we recalled our first meeting, and the skirmish we undertook defending Tiziano Sclavi's cinematic work, Dellamorte Dellamore and wondering again if Rupert Everett was a convincing Dylan Dog.

Mostly we laughed, about nothing.

About the wine that was too red and pungent to our nostrils, about how many people around us seemed to be enjoying themselves, about the beautiful girl who was a little sad a little further away and how her brown, straight, shiny hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

How mine, on the other hand, looked as if they had just come from a wrestling match, even though I had polished them well with conditioner and washed them. And the more I paid attention to them, the more these ungrateful ones disappointed me, ruffling their hair like cats in heat.

But the topic we returned to on our third or fourth glass of wine was the usual: our loneliness.

Both of us. We were like-minded, contentious souls, as uneven as the contours of those pretty red napkins.

George worked in an advertising agency, he was always in contact with the most varied human multitude; yet instead of enriching himself for this opportunity, he had closed the shutters, leaving the world outside, as if it were in an aquarium and he, alone, the only spectator to observe the aquatic comings and goings.

Then there was me: a housewife. Is there anything more abject?

By the time Anitha was born, I had withdrawn not only from the world of work but from all relational exchange; relationships terrified me with their inscrutable complexity.

I preferred the company of my daughter, some harmless chit-chat with other moms, and tidying up the nest. I had also kept my friendships in order, and so by pruning away the branches I thought were dry, I had ended up with a twisted, dwarfed, leafless, asphyxiated sapling.

And Robert, my husband, who still loved me, was also about to become the next dry twig to be pruned.

However, George was quite happy about this, he had won.

And he would ask me about how he was doing within the walls of his home, and when I confirmed that the tumor had reached the pleura, he would cheer, cheer, cheer, relax his features, stretch his smile, and proffer relentlessly:

I told you so, Monique. I told you so.

Generally, listening, nodding, and thanking her understanding was worth a good fuck.

How about you go, I'm tired of being here. Well, it wasn't a question, we paid and left.

The air outside was frigid, the streets, deserted, a few pieces of paper tumbling on the cobblestones.

I snuggled into my little coat, I was really cold and it would have been really nice if George had hugged me, pretending to really love me, like normal people do.

Instead we played grown-ups lived, and headed for the cars, walking briskly side by side.

In silence.

When we got to his place, we went upstairs, he had parked almost at the station, and we had come a long way, so I was out of breath from the cold and the fast pace I had forced myself to keep up with him and not fall behind.

And most importantly, don't be reprimanded.

I got in, and once inside, I had to laugh a little: it was always an unknown to get into his car, would I be dismissed or would he offer me more intimacy.

Where do you have your car?

He was so big, he filled the entire cockpit, he turned to look at me, the light from the streetlamp illuminated his features, and in the dark light of that dim brightness, his eyes shone, intense, and dancing full of emotion.

I squinted my lips a little, surprised, at the beats of my heart that went crazy, ecstatic and pirouetting, happy, in anticipation.

Near here. I managed to whisper, but my voice had been sucked out of my soul and now I was just instinct.

My senses picked up the faint smell of tobacco on our clothing, the muffled silence of that pre-Christmas evening in which most retired to their abodes to wrap gifts and watch the talk show on television, the smell of the Volvo's dashboard, leather and new.

He leaned closer, and that's when I felt the sourness of the wine we had just drunk together and stared at his mouth.

The full but not brazen lips, with elegant contours, those of a lord or baronet, and lost in observing them, I didn't notice that my mouth was parched and my eyes brazen to capture the moment.

At first he gently placed his lips on mine, asking permission?

Oh, but he had gotten permission long ago, I slipped my tongue between his lips and slowly licked his lip, I watched him, because I liked sex with the windows open and felt enormous excitement to see reflected in his, my own.

I felt beautiful, gorgeous, powerful as only a beautiful woman can be.

He was mine now.

And though he tyrannized me in every other context, there, in that game of senses, I was in charge.

He took my head with both hands and eagerly penetrated me with his tongue, and that duel intoxicated me so much that when I was pulled away, I was breathless.

He smiled contentedly, I know why, I was a little ruffled, my eyes crossed with emotion, shiny, my cheeks flushed and my lips half-closed, moist, eager.

I'll take you to my place.

What about the car? We'll figure it out later.

As he was about to start the car, he stopped for a moment, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the ignition key, his eyes looking at the deserted road: Happy New Year and he started the car.

A whisper, a breakthrough, but that was the kiss I wanted, that of a lover.

Now I was smiling, but without him noticing, under my whiskers, like cats waiting for the mouse out of the burrow.

In silence, listening to Every single night by Fiona Apple we arrived at her house.

He parked in front of the front door in the courtyard of his apartment. He lived on the outskirts of Chicago, in a small street of low buildings from the '60s, some with exposed stone, others plastered in yellow ochre. His apartment was on the ground