Page 1 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

Chapter 1

Lana

"I swear, if this guy screws us over, I'm personally shoving him into his own shipment," I mutter, rolling the window down just a crack to flick my gum out. The LA skyline looms like a beast in the night, all lit up and ready to swallow souls whole. My Ray-Bans are pointless at this hour, but they're like armor. You don't go into battle without your armor.

Grigori's beside me, a mountain of a man with fists that have told more stories than my entire collection of scars. Roman's outside, directing the circus of our guys as they load boxes that aren't exactly filled with your grandma's secret cookie recipe. The night's thick with tension, and even the air feels like it's up to no good.

We pull up to the docks, a place that smells like salt, sin, and a little bit of desperation. Perfect for a Tuesday night deal. The smuggler's waiting, a smug smile plastered on his face like he's just won the lottery. He's got that look, the one that says he thinks he's the smartest guy in the room. Spoiler alert: he's not.

He strides over, hand outstretched as if we're at some fancy gala instead of a dirty dock. Grigori steps in front of me, a living, breathing "no trespassing" sign. The smuggler's hand hangs in the air, and I can't help but smirk.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," I say, stepping around Grigori. "You've got something for me?"

He nods, motioning toward a nondescript container. It's all very cloak and dagger, or in our case, coke and swagger. We walk over, and he starts rattling off assurances about quality and discretion. I tune him out, my eyes scanning the area. Trust is a luxury in this business, and I'm more of a budget shopper.

"Is it all there?" I ask. This is not just a friendly question.

One of my crew, a guy we all call Twitch because of his nervous tic, steps forward with a clipboard. He's meticulous, a trait that's saved our asses more than once. He starts counting, ticking off numbers under his breath, moving from crate to crate with a practiced eye.

The smuggler watches Twitch, trying to mask his nervousness with a grin that looks more like a grimace. "Everything's accounted for, I assure you."

But when Twitch finishes, he walks over with a shake of his head. "We're short," he mutters, just loud enough for the smuggler to hear.

"Seems you're trying to shortchange us," I say, my voice calm but cold. The smuggler's eyes flicker with panic, then defiance.

"I... There must be some mistake," he stammers, but the confidence has drained from his voice.

"No mistake," I snap back, stepping closer. "And since you're not delivering as promised, we're adjusting the payment."

The smuggler's face falls, the reality of his situation becoming painfully clear. "But I—"

"No buts. You're lucky we're paying at all."

I signal to one of my men, who steps forward with the briefcase. I open it, pulling out a stack of bills and then, with deliberate slowness, remove a few more, making sure the smuggler sees every move. The message is clear: we're in control here.

The briefcase clicks shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

That's when he loses it, spitting at my feet, a desperate act from a desperate man. "You think you're so smart, with your politicians in your back pocket. I could cut you out, make you go back to whoring where you belong!"

The moment his spit hits the ground, Grigori's gun is out, smooth as silk but cold as ice. He steps in front of me, a silent giant telling everyone without a word that this is where they stop. No one's gonna mess with his charge—not on his watch.

I lock eyes with the smuggler, my heart pounding but my voice steady. "You've got exactly one chance to apologize." My face is inches from his, close enough to feel his ragged breaths. "Get down and lick my boots, like the dog you are."

He sneers, a nasty sound that scrapes my nerves raw. "Bitch, you think you can—"

His words cut off with a gurgle as my knife finds a home in his gut. I'm already moving, sidestepping his pathetic attempt to hit me, my foot connecting with his knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

Grigori's gun hasn't wavered, but his focus shifts just a fraction to the fallen smuggler, a clear message that he's next if he tries anything. The smuggler's men are still as statues, no one daring to break the silence that's fallen like a guillotine.

The moment stretches, a beat before hell breaks loose. Roman's hand lifts, a silent conductor of a deadly orchestra. Every gun in my crew snaps up, aimed at the smuggler and his men. The message couldn't be clearer if it was written in neon above our heads.

"Roll over, or they're all dead," I say, my voice flat, the words slicing through the tension. "And you? You'll wish you were, by the time I'm done with you."

He hesitates, a flicker of defiance in his eyes that dies as fast as it appeared. He knows he's outmatched, outnumbered. With a grunt, he rolls onto his stomach, the fight draining out of him.

I pull my gun, the weight of it in my hand a familiar comfort. Standing over him, I can't help but feel the gravity of the moment. This is the part of the game they don't tell you about—the weight, the finality.

He's muttering something under his breath, probably curses or prayers. Doesn't matter. My finger tightens on the trigger. The shot cracks the night open, a final punctuation mark in a sentence we started the moment we stepped onto these docks.

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