Page 112 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

“They’re safer than crown jewels,” he says sharply, snapping the lid of the case shut and signaling the guards outside. “Convoy is ready. Let’s move out.”

“Wait.” I glance around the room. “I need to grab a few other things. Please. They’re important.”

Lukyan nods. “Okay. But these need to go back to the hotel now. They’ll be safer there.”

I nod in agreement.

Lukyan immediately hands the case to Maxim. “Take this to Ben outside,” he orders. “Tell him to leave with the security detail immediately and head straight to the hotel.”

“Understood.”

Maxim disappears through the doorway with the case.

I turn back to the room, scanning shelves, drawers, and forgotten corners. There are too many pieces of history here to leave behind.

A few moments later, Maxim returns.

“Ben has left,” he reports. “The convoy is moving with full security.”

Relief eases some of the tension in my chest.

For the next ten minutes, I move through the room gathering anything that looks remotely important. Documents. Notes. Maps. Artifacts. The men follow behind me, carrying everything outside as quickly as I identify it.

Eventually, there’s nothing left worth taking.

I take one final look around the room.

“I’m done,” I say, turning to Lukyan. “Let’s go.”

Before we can move, I hear a loud, deafening bang. The concussive blast of a flashbang echoes off the concrete walls of the storage facility, violently shattering the silence.

Smoke and blinding light fill the narrow corridor instantly. I’m completely disoriented for a moment, my ears ringing with a sharp, high-pitched hum as the world spins out of focus.

The transition from quiet reconstruction to absolute chaos is immediate.

“Ambush!” Maxim roars, his voice sounding like it’s underwater through the ringing in my ears.

The storage unit is under attack. Armed men clad in dark, unmarked tactical gear breach the facility space, their movements highly coordinated and aggressively swift. Gunfire erupts, the sparks cutting through the thick smoke.

Suddenly, my survival instincts take over. The terror recedes, and my awareness sharpens into a hyper-focused clarity as I process the situation in brutal fragments—the smell of gunpowder, the shattering of light bulbs overhead, the heavy stomp of combat boots.

Lukyan reacts instantly. Before a single bullet can stray into the unit, his massive hand grips the front of my jacket, violently pulling me behind his frame. He positions himself entirely between me and the threat, using his own armored body as a shield.

“Stay down, Sofia! Behind the crates!” Lukyan commands, his voice a low, terrifying growl that cuts through the noise.

The fight that follows is controlled but utterly brutal. Lukyan draws his weapon in a fluid motion, his movements precise and lethal as he steps out to neutralize each attacker. A man rounds the corner with an assault rifle, but Lukyan fires tworounds directly into his chest before the attacker can even raise his barrel. There is absolutely no hesitation in him, no wasted motion.

Another shooter lunges into the doorway, trying to bypass him to get to me or the case. Lukyan blocks the rifle barrel with his forearm, slams his weight forward, and rams the man’s head into the steel frame of the storage door with a sickening crunch. His focus remains entirely divided between two things: eliminating every single threat in the hallway and ensuring I remain completely unharmed.

“Maxim! Right side!” Lukyan shouts over the din, firing three more rapid shots into the smoke.

“I got him!” Maxim yells back, his weapon firing in tandem, dropping a third mercenary who is trying to flank us from the loading bay.

Within less than ten minutes, the gunfire abruptly stops, replaced by the heavy, ragged breathing of the men and the hiss of a punctured pipe. The attack is contained quickly, and the bodies of the attackers slump motionless on the concrete floor.

Lukyan turns around instantly, his eyes frantic as he sweeps his gaze over my body. He drops to one knee in front of me, grabbing my shoulders. “Sofia. Look at me. Are you hit? Are you bleeding anywhere?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” I stammer, my hands shaking as I look past him at the blood pooling near the entrance. “Who are they? Is it Karl?”