Page 98 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Two down,” Yuri murmurs.

We push deeper into the maze. The facility is waking up. Shouts echo from the far end of the warehouse—the office complex. Boots slam against metal grating. They know we’re here.

“Flank left,” I order. “I’ll take the right.”

Yuri melts into the shadows of the shelving units. I move right, keeping my back to the cold steel of the containers.

A group of three men rounds the corner, their weapons raised. They’re young, scared, scanning the darkness with wide eyes.

I don’t hesitate.

I step out, weapon extended. Double-tap the first. The second panics, fumbling with his safety. I put a round through his eye. The third tries to run, but Yuri steps out from behind him, a knife flashing across his throat. He drops without a sound.

It’s efficient brutality, the language of my world.

We clear the main floor in under five minutes. Seven bodies lie scattered in the gloom. The only sound left is the relentless drumming of the rain on the roof and the distant wail of sirens—cops, probably, drawn by the explosion. They’re still five minutes out.

“The office,” Yuri says, nodding toward the mezzanine level. “Lorenzo is pinned.”

I look up. A sheet of reinforced glass looks down over the warehouse floor. I can see movement inside, a man pacing. Two guards are standing at the door.

“Cover me.”

Yuri snaps his rifle up, aiming at the catwalk. “Go.”

I sprint for the metal staircase. Bullets chew into the railing near my hand, sending sparks flying. I duck, rolling behind a crate as the two guards open fire from the landing above.

I pop up, squeezing off three rounds. One guard spins and falls over the railing, crashing into a pile of pallets below. The second ducks back into the office, firing blindly.

I take the stairs two at a time. I reach the landing and kick the office door open.

Lorenzo is there.

He’s standing behind a massive oak desk, a phone in one hand and a pistol in the other. He has sharp features and dark eyes. The arrogance is the same. It radiates off him like heat.

“Gromov,” he says, lowering the phone. He sounds bored, not scared. “I wondered how long it would take you to show up.”

“I’m here to end the party, Lorenzo.”

“Party?” He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. “This is business, and you’re crashing the wrong deal.”

He gestures with the gun. “Kill him.”

The remaining guard steps out from the corner of the room, raising an assault rifle.

I dive behind a filing cabinet as the wall disintegrates under a hail of bullets. Drywall dust fills the air, choking me. I cough, checking my mag. Half full.

I need to move.

I signal Yuri.

A canister arcs through the shattered window, clattering onto the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears just as it detonates. A blinding white light and a deafening crack fill the room.

I’m up and moving before the guard can recover. I shoulder-check him, slamming him into the wall. He drops the rifle, dazed. I drive my knife into the side of his neck, twisting the blade. He gurgles and slides down the wall, painting the gray plaster in red.

Just Lorenzo now.

He’s shouting now, the cool facade gone. He fires blindly, the shots wild and panicked.