Page 2 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

The air rushes out, heavy with the scent of gunpowder and finality. My crew lowers their weapons at another gesture from Roman, the tension bleeding away, replaced by a grim sort of satisfaction.

As we turn to leave, I can't help but glance back. The smuggler's body lies still. It's not pretty, it's not heroic—it's survival, plain and simple.

Grigori's voice cuts through the silence, heavy with something like concern, or maybe just curiosity. "Was that really necessary?"

I glance at him, can't help but let a half-smirk dance on my lips. "You're the one who has his gun aimed at every fucker's head at the first sign of trouble."

He grunts, the sound saying more than words ever could. Grigori's always been more about action than conversation, anyway.

I bend down, using the dead man's jacket to wipe the spit off my boot.

Roman's already scanning the area, always two steps ahead in planning our exit strategy. "We need to get going. Now."

He's right. Lingering is a luxury we can't afford, not with the cargo we've got and the message we've just sent.

Twitch is beside me now, his usual tic gone, replaced by a focused glance as he keeps track of our cargo being loaded into the back of a nondescript van. Efficiency is his language, and tonight it sings in harmony with urgency.

I turn to the rest of our crew, catching their eyes one by one. It's a motley crew, loyal to the bone, but loyalty is a currency that needs constant reinforcement in our world.

"If the police hear a single word about this," I start, my voice low but carrying an edge sharper than the knife I just used, "I know where you and your families live."

It's not a threat; just a fact. In our line of work, insurance policies come in all forms, and mine just happens to involve knowing exactly where the line is drawn.

Silence blankets the group, a thick, heavy thing that you could cut with a blade. It's not fear; no, it's respect. Understanding. We're all in this together, bound by secrets, sins, and the unspoken agreement that survival trumps all.

The men nod, a silent vow of silence and solidarity. They get back to work, finishing packing up with a renewed sense of urgency. There's an efficiency to their movements, a well-oiled machine powered by necessity.

As the last crate is secured, I nod to Roman, who doesn't waste a beat before sliding into the driver's seat. The engine rumbles to life with a purr that speaks of something feral beneath its hood. I toss one final look over my shoulder at Grigori, who's standing like an ancient guardian statue by the now empty space where the deal had gone down.

Then it hits me—a wave of nausea so sudden and overwhelming, I barely have time to turn away before I'm throwing up, my body convulsing with each heave. "Fuck," I gasp between spasms, "could this be that pregnancy symptom bullshit again?" The last thing I need is for my men to think I'm weak, that I threw up because of the violence we just dealt in. No, Lana doesn't get queasy over bloodshed; Lana handles her business without flinching.

The sound of footsteps rushing towards me cuts through the haze of my discomfort, and then Roman's there, his voice laced with concern. "Are you alright?"

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, straightening up as I fight to regain my composure. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lie, pushing away the concern in his eyes with a forced smirk. "Just swallowed wrong. You know how it is."

Roman doesn't look convinced, his brows furrowing as he studies me, but he doesn't push it. "If you say so," he says, but there's a note in his voice that tells me he's not buying it.

I need to get a grip, to control these damn symptoms before they give me away. I can't afford to show any weakness, not when I'm leading a syndicate in a world where vulnerabilities can be fatal. "Let's get moving," I command.

Roman, Grigori, and I head to our separate cars, leaders each in our own right, steering this ship through stormy seas. The city unfolds before us, lights blurring past as we drive through the veins of Los Angeles, each taking a different route, a precaution against anyone foolish enough to follow. The night's events replay in my mind, a reminder of the delicate balance we maintain. Power, fear, respect—it's a dance, and I'm leading the charge.

The road stretches out, endless and full of possibilities. Tonight, we've sent a message, loud and clear. And as the city sleeps, we drive on, guardians of our own destiny, masters of the night.

Chapter 2

Roman

The sun's just starting to paint the sky with those annoyingly pretty colors when we pull up to the base. This place, I've grown to hate it with every fiber of my being. It's the heart of our operations, sure, but every corner, every shadow holds a memory I'd rather forget. Yet here we are, back again with a trunk full of trouble.

As we unload, I can't help but throw out, "Maybe we should just get high off our own supply, sell the clients some sugar pills." It's bullshit, of course, but I like to see Lana's reaction.

She shoots me that look, the one that could either mean she's amused or plotting my demise. "Don't even joke about that," she says, but there's a smirk playing at the edges of her lips.

Grigori, ever the silent giant, starts heading off to do his security sweep. I call after him, "Hey, maybe find something in there to loosen up. God knows you could use a chill pill."

Lana rolls her eyes, ignores my comment. That's the thing about her; she knows when to play along and when to shut it down.

We're inside, the air thick with the scent of money and danger. I watch Lana, can't help it. Fuck, she's a vision, even in this hellhole. I'm caught between wanting to be with her and wanting to be her. It's a sick game my mind plays.

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