Page 50 of Crown of Hate

Alexei hisses. “You’re no fun, big guy.”

“Alright, that’s enough jokes,” I growl, snapping their attention back to me. “We’re going in now. Kill everyone on sight except Luca. We need that motherfucker alive… for now.”

My trigger finger itches. God, I wish I could end that bastard already. But he deserves a slow, painful death for what he did to my warehouse and my men. So, for now, I’ll have to be satisfied with doing the same to him.

“Are you ready, chief?” Semyon asks.

I raise guns and nod. “Let’s go.”

We storm towards the warehouse entrance. Some of Lucas’s men spot us, but we drop them before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Poor bastards never stood a chance.

First blood, and it tastes fucking sweet.

More men pour out from the warehouse like rats from a sinking ship, yelling and fumbling with their weapons. Amateurs. I dive behind a barrel for cover and open fire, picking them off as they come.

Every one of my nerves sings with adrenaline. This—this is living. The raw power, the threat of death—it’s intoxicating. Better than any drug.

It doesn’t take long for the air to erupt in beautiful chaos—screams of the dying, the staccato rhythm of gunfire, the acrid stench of gunpowder burning my nostrils. It’s a symphony of destruction, and I’m the goddamn conductor.

Alya, the bounty, the Bratva—it all fades away. There’s only this moment, this fight, this glorious, bloody chaos.

To my left, Semyon’s roar pierces the chaos as he unloads his AK-47 from behind a stack of crates. The rapid-fire makes quick work of our enemies, turning them into bloody Swiss cheese.

On my right, Alexei moves like a shadow, slipping between crates with lethal grace. Each time he appears, another enemy drops. His precision is terrifying. He’s a predator in his element, effortlessly dodging bullets and never missing a kill.

The battle reaches a crescendo, then abruptly fades. An eerie silence descends, broken only by the moans of the dying. I survey the carnage with a savage grin splitting my face.

Holy shit. We did it.

Bodies carpet the floor, blood pooling beneath them. The few survivors twitch and whimper, too broken to even think about reaching for their fallen weapons. It’s a bloodbath.

Some of the rage that’s been burning in my gut since this morning melts away as I take in the scene. In its place, a dark satisfaction spreads through me. Luca thought he could fuck with me? With my people? Well, look at him now. In mere minutes, I’ve turned his precious army into fertilizer.

Each corpse is a message. Each bloodstain, a warning. This is what happens when you cross Mikhail Zirkhov.

We pick our way inside the warehouse, stepping over the fallen.

Luca’s voice echoes from somewhere inside. “What do you mean we’re being attacked?” he barks.

The idiot never saw us coming. But he’s about to get a front-row seat to the consequences of his stupidity.

“Semyon,” I call out, “you stay here with Alexei. Make sure no one gets any heroic ideas while I have a chat with our friend Luca.”

“It’s dangerous,” Semyon says, kicking over the bodies on the floor.

“Danger? This is just foreplay.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Just watch my back, yeah?”

“Sure thing, chief.”

I stalk towards Luca’s voice, my anticipation burning hot with the promise of vengeance. As I round the corner, I see him sitting behind his big mahogany desk. His eyes are wild, darting around like a cornered animal. Though he’s trying hard not to look alarmed. It’s almost cute.

The bodyguard next to him tries to draw his gun, but a single shot from mine finds his skull before he can even blink.

Luca flies to his feet, hand diving under his desk. Predictable idiot.

I level my gun at his head and press my finger to the trigger. “One more stupid move and you’re a dead man, Luca Rossi.”

His hand freezes mid-reach. Good boy.

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