Page 49 of Kidnapped By the Bratva

“Good,” I say, my voice a low growl. “They won’t be expecting us.”

We gather around, formulating a plan in hushed tones. The goal is clear—get in, take out the Italians, and get Sophia out alive. Everything else is secondary. My mind is a laser-focused storm of rage and strategy, the image of Sophia’s pale, frightened face flashing in my head.

“They’ll have her tied up,” Artem says quietly, his jaw tight. “Probably in the center of the room, surrounded by guards.”

“Then we’ll surround them,” I reply. “Take them out one by one, quietly at first, then move in for the kill.”

“Maxim,” Timur says, catching my eye. “We go in hard and fast, but they won’t hesitate to kill her if they feel threatened.”

“I know.” My voice is ice-cold. “That’s why we won’t give them the chance.”

We split into two groups, moving through the shadows toward the warehouse. The sound of the ocean is the only thing breaking the silence, a haunting reminder of how close we are to the edge—both literally and figuratively. Every step feels like a countdown to something inevitable.

I lead the charge, my eyes locked on the massive building ahead, my heart pounding with the same intensity as my anger. There’s no room for hesitation. No room for mistakes.

We reach the warehouse, crouching low as we creep toward the back entrance. Artem takes out one of the guards with a swift, silent strike, his body crumpling to the ground without a sound. We move quickly, efficiently, taking down the perimeter guards one by one.

Once we reach the door, Timur nods at me, signaling that the way is clear. I grip the handle, my knuckles whitening from the force.

This is it.

I take a deep breath, the only thing on my mind now is Sophia—and the blood I’m about to spill for her.

With a sharp twist, I push the door open.

Chapter Twenty-Four - Sophia

The darkness presses in around me, thick and suffocating, and the only sound I can hear is the frantic pounding of my heart. My wrists ache from being tied up for so long, and my hands are starting to go numb. I can barely see anything in this dimly lit room, but I refuse to give up. I have to get out of here.

Chiara left me alone, probably thinking I’m too weak to escape, but I’m not giving up. I’ve been feeling around the floor for what feels like hours, and finally, I find something—sharp and small. A broken shard of glass or metal, I can’t tell. It’s jagged enough to cut through the ropes binding my wrists.

I grit my teeth, sawing at the ropes with trembling hands. Every second feels like an eternity, the fear gnawing at my insides as I work as quickly as I can. My hands shake from the effort, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

Finally, I feel the ropes give way. My hands come free, and I pull them forward, rubbing my sore wrists. Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived.

Just as I’m about to stand, the door creaks open.

A man steps into the room, tall and menacing. His face is shadowed, but I can feel the malice radiating off him. I scramble backward, my heart racing as he approaches. His eyes lock on me, and I see the dark intent in them. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to kill me.

Without warning, he lunges toward me, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me forward. I scream in pain, struggling to break free, but he’s too strong. His grip tightens, and my scalp burns as he drags me across the floor.

“Let go of me!” I shout, but he only laughs, his breath hot against my skin.

My fingers scramble for the sharp object I used earlier. My mind races, my instincts kicking in. I know I won’t get another chance.

The man pulls me closer, his hand squeezing my throat, and that’s when I act. I grip the shard of metal tightly in my hand and thrust it forward with all the strength I have left.

I don’t even realize where I’m aiming until I feel it sink into his neck.

He lets out a guttural sound, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbles backward. Blood spurts from the wound, dark and thick, and he clutches at his throat, his body collapsing to the floor. I stare in horror, my hands slick with his blood, as he gurgles and chokes, his life slipping away.

The sight of it is nauseating, the sheer amount of blood overwhelming. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

I killed him.

The realization hits me like a freight train, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. My hands shake, covered in his blood, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the pool of red spreading across the floor.

Suddenly, the door bursts open again, and more men flood into the room. Among them is Don Fernando, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene—the body on the floor, the blood staining my clothes, and the weapon still clutched in my trembling hand.

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