Page 49 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

Blood turns to ice in my veins. The scene narrows, tunnel-vision sharp. Lana, her face pale in the moonlight, her body tense, a statue of defiance. Everything else fades to a blur—the pain, the cold, the weight of Grigori's arm over my shoulder. Instinct and adrenaline hijack my body, and I'm moving before I can think.

I let go of Grigori. He collapses with a grunt beside Luca, who throws me a look of raw, unspoken questions. No time. I'm already sprinting, closing the distance, my hand finding the cold grip of the knife tucked in my belt.

Perez doesn't see me coming. He's too focused on Lana, a smug grin distorting his features. Rage, hot and blinding, consumes me. I tackle him to the ground, the impact sending shocks through my already battered body. Concrete bites into my skin, but I barely feel it. I'm above him now, my arm swinging wildly, knife glinting under the street lamps.

He tries to fend me off, but the fear in his eyes tells me he knows it's too late. The knife plunges down, again and again, each thrust a release of every pent-up emotion—the betrayal, the pain, the relentless pressure to survive. I hear him gasp, a choked sound that barely registers over my own ragged breathing.

Then, amidst the fading sounds of struggle and heavy breaths, it comes-- The sharp crack of a gunshot, surprisingly loud. A sound I know all too well. It slices through my frenzy as cleanly as my blade did through Perez's flesh.

Pain explodes in my abdomen, searing and profound. I falter, vision swimming as I'm shoved backward. The ground rushes up to meet me, and I hit the asphalt hard.

Time slows to a crawl. I turn, feeling the sting before I even see the muzzle flash. Lana's eyes are wide with terror. The pain is distant at first, a dull throb somewhere on the outskirts of my consciousness that grows louder with every thudding heartbeat.

I'm on my back now, staring up at a sky splattered with careless strokes of stars. Grigori and Luca, never far behind, have caught up just in time.

Luca's shouting something, voice distant over the ringing in my ears. I strain to look past them, to see Lana, but she's a blur, moving frantically behind them. "Lana!" I try to shout her name, but it comes out as a whisper, breath hitching with effort. "Lana!"

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I reach out with a shaking hand, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that might anchor me to this rapidly fading reality.

With each passing second, the cold seeps deeper, encasing me in an icy shell. Sounds become muffled. I feel a strange peace. Perhaps this is what it's like to float away, to leave behind the burdens and the battles.

But before the darkness claims me completely, a final thought anchors me to the tangible: I hope my last act wasn’t in vain. I hope Lana makes it. I hope Grigori forgives me.

Then, with a final sigh, I let the night take me.

Chapter 25

Lana

It’s been hours, too many goddamn hours, waiting for Roman to come around from surgery. Luca pulled some strings, a favor that cost us more than a few dirty bills, but got us a surgeon who knows his way around a bullet wound better than most legit doctors.

Grigori’s back on his feet, just a scratch he said, but that scratch had him pale as a ghost. He's lucky, I guess, only lost some blood. And then there’s Julia, my poor girl, broken more than just on the surface. They had her bad, tortured her. It makes my blood boil just thinking about it.

Now here in this dingy safehouse, the smell of antiseptic biting at my nostrils, I sit next to Luca. His presence is a solid comfort next to the chaos of my thoughts. He’s got one hand on mine, rough and reassuring. But comfort feels like a distant dream when every part of me is tensed, waiting, fearing.

I can’t stop the tears; they come hot and fast, slipping down in silent betrayal of my usual tough façade. My other hand rests on my belly.

Roman. Damn him for being the hero, for taking that bullet. And damn me for ever doubting him. He’s always been this mix of infuriating and indispensable. I thought I could prepare for any storm, handle any betrayal. But watching him bleed out, knowing it was for me, that cracked something inside.

Luca’s voice breaks through my haze of fear and regret. “He’ll be alright, Lana. Roman’s a tough bastard. Takes more than a bullet to keep him down.”

I nod, because what else is there to do? Every tick of the clock is a hammer to my chest, every stir of movement from the next room where Roman lies, sedated and patched up, sends my heart racing.

Outside, the night presses against the windows, dark and unyielding. Inside, the dim light flickers, a cruel mimic of my faltering hope. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. I was meant to be the leader, the unshakable head of the syndicate. But here I am, falling apart over a man—a man who should have been my enemy.

“I never should’ve doubted him,” I whisper, more to myself than to Luca. The admission is a sharp sting, a slap to my own face.

Luca squeezes my hand, a wordless promise that he’s here, no matter the shitstorm we’re in. But it’s Roman’s face I see when I close my eyes, Roman’s pain that I feel echoing in my bones.

The sound of footsteps jerking me back to reality, I tense, ready for more bad news, another fight, another loss. But it's the surgeon, his scrubs stained with the evidence of his battle to keep Roman alive. I stand so quickly my head spins, my hand instinctively reaching for the gun I'm not even carrying.

"How is he?" The words are torn from my throat, raw and demanding. Everyone in the room holds their breath, a collective pause that presses down like the weight of the world.

The surgeon is calm, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that speaks volumes. "Stable," he says. "But it’s too early to say if he’ll pull through completely. The bullet did some damage."

I feel my knees weaken but Luca’s grip is steady, keeping me upright. We're not out of the woods yet, but stable—it's a word that carries a fragile thread of hope.

Grigori stumbles in. Damn him, he should be resting, conserving strength, but here he is, face still a shade too pale, a stubborn set to his jaw. I want to scold him, to send him back to bed, but that urge gets swallowed by a more pressing need.

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