Page 89 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Dima is at my side immediately, his coat plastered to his frame, rifle ready. He gives a sharp series of hand signals. Our men break off, silent and focused, slipping into the darkness like wolves. No noise. No hesitation.

This isn’t an assault, it’s an execution.

We move fast. Surgical. No shouting. No wasted movement. They’ve had their chance. We don’t offer second ones.

The first two guards don’t even have time to lift their weapons. A muffled shot—then another—and they collapse into the mud, necks snapped back, eyes wide with the surprise of dying.

The house looms ahead, squat and rotting beneath the weight of the storm. A perfect place for rats.

By the time someone inside realizes what’s happening, I’m already through the back door.

The house erupts around me.

Gunfire bursts from the upper windows, shattering glass, splintering wood. Screams follow—short, confused, panicked. A flashbang goes off down the hall. Light cuts through the smoke, white and brutal.

I don’t flinch. I move through the chaos like a shadow.

Ruthless. Calm. Precise.

My footsteps echo across the warped floorboards. The shape of the rooms comes back to me fast—Dima’s briefing, the satellite images, the terrain. I know every angle. Every corner.

A man rounds the hallway, rifle in hand, finger tightening on the trigger.

Too slow. I shoot him once, center mass, and he drops before his knees can even buckle.

Another guard bolts for the front door—panic all over him, weapon forgotten. I raise my gun and fire once. He crumples in the doorway, face down in the mud.

Cowards always run.

“Second floor!” Dima’s voice cuts through the gunfire. “Back room!”

My chest tightens—not from fear. From focus.

Alina. Upstairs. That’s all that matters.

***

Alina

The footsteps outside my door are fast. Heavy.

My heart lodges in my throat as I back toward the wall, fists clenched, breath held—until I hear the first bang.

Then a second.

The door crashes open.

Andrei stands there, a storm made flesh.

He’s soaked in rain and blood, his black coat hanging heavy against his frame, his gun still smoking. His chest heaves, but his eyes are steady—focused—sweeping the room until they land on me. For a heartbeat, everything inside me collapses with relief.

I stumble toward him, and he catches me. My fingers fist in his shirt, clinging to the only real thing in the world.

“It’s a trap,” I gasp. “They’re waiting for you—”

“I figured,” he growls, already pulling me close, already moving.

Gunfire explodes from downstairs.

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