Page 51 of Ruthless Bratva King

Is he playing with me?

35

ELENA

Asharp click echoes through the apartment, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. My head snaps up, heart pounding. The door creaks open, slow and deliberate.

Dmitri’s footsteps don’t sound like that.

I leap off the bed, adrenaline surging. My eyes dart to the dresser where Dmitri’s gun rests.

My fingers tremble as I slide open the drawer and grab the gun, gripping it tightly with both hands.

The door to the bedroom swings fully open, revealing a man in his twenties. He’s short and wide, built like a wrestler. His eyes lock on me immediately, narrowing as they flick down to the gun I’m holding.

He says something in Russian then rolls his eyes when I clearly don’t understand.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks in English. His accent is thick, his tone cutting. “And what do you think you’re doing in an Ivanov safe house?”

Safe house?My blood runs cold.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammer, trying to sound braver than I feel.

“Where’s Dmitri?” He steps forward.

I react instinctively, raising the gun and aiming it at him. “Don’t move!” My voice is sharper now, trembling with both fear and determination.

The man freezes, his lip curling in a sneer. “Put the gun down, little girl, before you hurt yourself. We both know you won’t fire that thing.”

I think of what Dmitri said. Belief is what matters. I tighten my grip, the weight of the gun heavy but strangely steady in my hands. “Take one more step and we’ll see who gets hurt.”

He huffs a laugh, low and condescending. “Do you even know how to use that?”

“Do you want to find out?” I surprise myself with the steel in my voice.

His smile vanishes. His hand twitches as if he’s about to grab the gun.

“I said don’t move!” My voice cracks, but I don’t lower the weapon. My pulse thunders in my ears, but I hold my ground.

For a tense moment, neither of us moves. Then he lifts his hands slightly, a mock gesture of surrender. “Fine. I’m going.”

He backs away slowly, his eyes fixed on me with a mixture of annoyance and intrigue. Just as he reaches the door, he pauses, leaning against the frame.

“But I’ll be back real soon,” he warns, his tone dark and menacing.

Without another word, he’s gone.

The silence that follows is deafening.

My arms drop to my sides, the gun still clutched tightly in my hands. My legs feel like jelly, and I sink down onto the edge of the bed, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I stare at the gun, my hands trembling uncontrollably. I’ve never held a weapon before, much less pointed one at someone.

The realization of what almost happened crashes down on me like a tidal wave. My chest tightens, panic rising. I almost killed a man.

And yet, beneath the fear, there’s something else. A strange flicker of pride.

I held my ground. I made him believe I would do it.

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