Page 52 of The Bratva Queens' Kings

Lana

The night's perfect for the kind of work that needs the cover of darkness. My heels click against the wet concrete. I pause, scanning the area. It's just another smuggling run, but since Roman's close call, every shadow pulses with potential threat.

"Looks clear," I murmur.

Roman and Grigori flank me, their presence reassuring. Roman’s still not fully back to his old self, but the stubborn bastard wouldn’t miss this. Grigori, ever the silent sentinel, nods once, his eyes never ceasing their sweep of the dark horizon.

A ship looms out of the fog. The hiss of the sea mingles with the distant call of a night bird, the sound eerie, otherworldly. Roman steps forward. "Right on time."

The crew onboard works silently, efficiency born of countless nights like this. Crates start to descend from the deck, swinging slightly as they're lowered to the dock. I step forward to oversee the operation, my mind alert. Every box, every movement counts.

Grigori moves past me. He's by the crates now, checking seals, confirming contents. Roman's watching the perimeter, a hand casually resting near the gun at his hip.

The crates land with soft thuds, lined up like dominos ready to fall. Our crew, quick and precise, begins moving them into the waiting trucks. Everything's smooth, like clockwork.

"Last one," Grigori calls out, his voice low.

I nod, taking one last look around. My heart beats a rhythm of adrenaline, but my face is calm, composed. This is what we do, who we are.

As the trucks start to rumble to life, Roman walks back to me, a grin spreading across his face. "Like the old days, huh?"

"Better," I respond, the corner of my mouth lifting in a smirk. "No one does it quite like us."

Grigori chuckles, a low rumble that barely carries over the sound of the engines. "And no one ever will."

We watch as the trucks disappear into the night, their taillights winking out like the last stars at dawn. It's a moment of victory, but in our line of work, victory is fleeting and always shadowed with the threat of retribution.

"Time to vanish," I say, turning away from the now empty dock.

The three of us move back to our own vehicle.

Our escape plan is as meticulous as our operation — different routes, planned checkpoints, and fallbacks if things go south.

Roman slides into the driver's seat while Grigori takes shotgun. I settle in the back.

It’s finally time to go home. Home, where my roles as a leader and a mother merge—each as challenging as the other.

The car pulls into the driveway. We step out. The door opens to the comforting sounds of life—Luca's low voice drifting from the living room.

As we step through the door, the sound of laughter and a kid’s high-pitched chatter fill the space. Home feels like a different world after tonight's work.

We head upstairs, and there he is—my son, Maxim, perched on Luca’s lap, deep in some kid-version of a business discussion. Maxim's got that serious look he inherits from me, but when he spots us, his face lights up like fireworks on New Year’s.

“Mommy!” He scrambles off Luca’s lap, charging across the room with the reckless speed only a seven-year-old can manage. I open my arms just in time to catch him as he launches into a hug.

“How was your deal?” Maxim asks, pulling back with that curious gleam in his eyes, always eager to hear about the "adventures."

“It was good, sweetheart. Everything went smooth as silk,” I assure him, smoothing back a lock of his hair. “How about you? Did you finish your homework?”

He tries to wiggle free, his face scrunching up. “Um, I was just going to…”

I raise an eyebrow, giving him that look. “Maxim, you know the deal. No homework, no weekend cartoons.”

“But Mom!” he protests, the word stretching into a whine.

“No buts. You finish up your homework, and then we can talk about cartoons, okay?”

Maxim sighs, the weight of the world apparently on his tiny shoulders. “Okay, Mommy.”

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