Page 48 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

The mention of Roman is a knife to the gut, but I don't let the pain show. I can feel the temperature drop, or maybe it's my blood turning cold as steel within my veins. "You think you know loyalty, Perez? Bought loyalty isn't worth the paper your filthy money is printed on."

“Are you done?” Perez's confidence oozes from him as he steps closer, his words laced with a deadly finality. "You've got one last chance, Lana. Take my deal or I'll off you, your pal, and cut your baby out for your baby daddies to find on their doorstep.”

I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees, especially before a man who wouldn't recognize honor if it bit him in the ass. With every fiber of my being screaming in defiance, I lock eyes with Perez, the finality of the moment wrapping around us like a shroud. "Go to hell," I spit out.

Perez's face contorts into a mask of rage, and he aims the gun directly at my head. I stand firm, my resolve as steadfast as ever. I close my eyes, not in fear, but in acceptance of whatever fate has in store. In this moment, I am untouchable—not because I'm invincible, but because I refuse to bow down to his threats.

Chapter 24

Roman

Blood clings to the air, thick and pungent. It could be mine, could be from anyone of a dozen bodies back there. The stink roots itself in every breath I take.

Every step feels like a mile, each breath a labor. My body's screaming, every inch of me aching with the kind of pain you only get from cheating death.

Grigori's arm tightens around me, his strength surprising given the circumstances. The guy I thought would see me as a traitor is now the one saving my ass, hauling me out of this godforsaken warehouse with a grip that says he's not letting go. It's messed up.

We shuffle through debris, our steps slow, measured, while Luca catches up, his face a mask of strategy and concern. "What the hell is Roman doing here?" he demands, breath puffing white in the chill air.

Grigori doesn't even break stride, his voice a gruff bark. "Long story. We need to get the fuck out first."

Luca doesn’t argue; instead, he slips under my other shoulder, a solid presence that steadies my uneven gait. "Move faster," he mutters, eyes darting to the dark corners and back.

The metal and broken glass beneath our feet make a treacherous carpet, and every step is a gamble. I feel every jolt, every tug against my battered ribs, sparking fresh waves of pain.

Suddenly, Grigori stumbles, a strangled grunt escaping him as he nearly drops to his knees. His face goes white, eyes tightening. He's been hit; I notice now the dark stain spreading across his side.

"Fuck, Grigori!" I hiss, grabbing him before he hits the ground. Luca’s hands are swift, supporting him from the other side.

Grigori's breath is ragged, his usual stoic mask shattered by pain. "Just a scratch," he lies blatantly, trying to straighten up.

I glance back towards the warehouse, paranoia nipping at my heels. "We can't stop here, too exposed."

Luca nods grimly, scanning the perimeter. "We drag him if we must, but we don’t stop."

Grigori will heal; it's just a scratch. I keep telling myself that, trying to believe the lie that slips through clenched teeth. He's tough as nails, always has been. But shit, it should've been me taking that bullet, not him.

Ten years back, the scene was different. Bratva syndicate were buzzing with the controlled chaos that only the likes of Lana’s father could orchestrate. I was a fresh recruit, a cocky kid with more guts than sense, thinking I owned the place. That was until Grigori walked in. He wasn't just some new muscle; he had a stare that would freeze you where you stood, a real ice-cold son of a bitch.

I remember the first time we really talked. He caught me off guard, outside the crowded noise of the bar where the others were celebrating some dirty deal gone right. The cold nipped at my skin, but I was too drunk on youth and vodka to care.

"You've got fire, malchik," Grigori had said, smoke curling from his lips as he offered me a cigarette with a blood-stained hand. "But fire without discipline is just waiting to burn out. You want to last? Learn control."

I'd laughed it off then, tossed his advice aside like I did with most things that didn't fit my view of the world. But now, staggering through this wasteland of glass and metal with Grigori bleeding out beside me, I realize how much those words had actually sunk in. He'd been my unwavering constant, a mentor when I least expected it.

He was more than that too. A brother in arms, a comrade in the darkest of times. He'd seen me through backstabs and double-crosses, through the death matches of loyalty and the blood-baths of betrayal. We were cut from the same cloth, survivors by nature, thrivers by sheer defiance.

"Stay with us, man," I can't help the shaking of my voice.

Grigori's eyes, though glazed with pain, meet mine with a fierce intensity. "Not planning on checking out yet," he grunts, the Russian accent thicker with his stress. "Too much work to be done."

Luca keeps us moving, his own intensity a silent force driving us forward. I can see he's doing the calculations in his head, plotting our route like we're just another one of his intricate plans. But even the best-laid plans have a way of unravelling when blood and bullets are involved.

As we weave through abandoned stacks of shipping containers, I find myself scanning for threats automatically, despite the throbbing reminder of my injuries. If Grigori is still standing and fighting through his wound, then I have no excuse to let my guard down now.

We stumble through the final stretch, the harsh exterior door of the warehouse groaning as it swings open, vomiting us into the biting cold outside. Relief floods through me, a premature taste of freedom. It's over, I think. Just a few more—

Then I see them. Perez and his crew. They're too many, too ready. My heart slams against my ribs, a frenzied drumming as my eyes lock on the most horrifying detail: one of Perez's goons, gun trained directly on Lana.

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