Page 45 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

Clicking the intercom, I keep my voice low, controlled. "Found Julia. Get a couple of guys in here, now." Luca's quick acknowledgment crackles through, relief and readiness mingling in his response.

Approaching Julia, I gently grasp her jaw, turning her face towards me. "Poor Julia, what have they done to you?"

Her eyes flutter open slowly, confusion and then recognition flitting across her gaze. "Grig...ori?" Her voice is a hoarse whisper, strained from disuse and thirst.

"Yeah, it's me. We're getting you out of here," I assure her, working quickly to untie the ropes binding her to the chair.

"Thought... I was dreaming," she murmurs, a weak attempt at humor that doesn't quite mask the pain in her eyes.

"No dream, Julia. But soon you'll be out of this nightmare," I reply, finally freeing her from the chair. Her body sways, weak from her ordeal, and I catch her before she can collapse.

"Can't believe... you came," she says, a small, pained smile flickering across her lips.

"Always," I say, hoisting her up with more gentleness than I'm known for. "Let's go home."

The moment my backup arrives, it's a sight for sore eyes. Luca's leading them, his expression tight but controlled. The men, armed to the teeth, look ready for war, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any immediate threat.

"Good job," Luca grunts, stepping forward to assess Julia's condition. He leans in, "Julia, can you hear me?"

She's too weak to respond, her head lolling against my shoulder. Without missing a beat, the men step in, carefully lifting her from my arms to carry her out to safety.

"Found Julia. Bringing her in now," I speak into the intercom.

Lana's response is immediate, "Thank god. Be careful coming back."

"I'll be right out," I promise as they shuffle Julia out.

But something gnaws at me—the fight we stumbled upon wasn't random. Curiosity and caution mix in my gut. I can't leave, not yet. Not with questions unanswered.

As Luca and the men disappear with Julia, I turn back, slipping into the shadows once more. The warehouse, with its ongoing conflict, holds answers I intend to find. What is this fight? And more importantly, who stands to gain from it?

Silent as a ghost, I move deeper inside.

Dust and the stench of blood are heavy in the air of the warehouse. As I navigate through its bones, the distant sounds of conflict grow louder. The structure groans under the weight of its own decay, the walls whispering secrets of countless deals gone wrong, betrayals, and bloodshed.

Emotions churn within me—a storm of duty, curiosity, and an unsettling sense of anticipation. The closer I get, the clearer the noises become: grunts of effort, the smack of flesh on flesh, the clatter of weapons.

Reaching the source of the commotion, I find a door, its bottom edge glowing with the promise of answers. The light spills out. My hand on the handle, I pause, every instinct honed from years in the shadows screaming for caution. The door creaks, betraying my presence as I push it ajar and slip through.

The scene that unfolds is one I couldn't have anticipated. Perez's goons are locked in battle not with another gang, not with law enforcement, but with Roman. My friend. The man who had stepped across a line I hadn't expected him to cross. And yet, here he is, a whirlwind of fury, taking on Perez's men single-handedly.

He's downed a couple already. But the odds are against him—three still stand, circling, eager to take down the lone wolf among them.

I freeze, every muscle tensed, every sense alert.

Hand on the door, heart pounding like a damn drum solo in my chest. This is it, isn't it? The moment that could flip loyalty on its head. I see Roman in there, fighting like the devil himself, and Perez's goons closing in. Would stepping in be betraying Lana? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Suddenly Roman notices me. Our eyes lock across the chaos. Then, time snaps like a rubber band, back into action. One of Perez's men lunges, a gun aimed straight for Roman's chest.

No thinking. No hesitating. Just moving.

I burst through the door, every fiber in my body tuned to the singular goal of saving Roman. I step into the fray.

I quickly assess the situation, leveraging the element of surprise. It's like a dance I've practiced a thousand times in my mind, but never wanted to perform. Roman ducks as the goon fires, the bullet searing through the air where his head had been moments before.

In mere seconds, I'm upon them. My hand shoots out, snatching the gun from the assailant's grasp before he can correct his aim. Using his momentum against him, I twist his arm, forcing him down with a thud that echoes off the warehouse walls. His scream is cut short as I land a precise blow to his temple, silencing him.

Roman, meanwhile, is not idle. He takes advantage of their shock to disarm another goon, cracking an elbow into his opponent's face. Blood sprays—an unfortunate reminder of our violent ballet.

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