Page 94 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Maxim cuts a path through the room like a storm. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t gloat. He just moves—methodical, brutal, exact. One man lunges at him with a blade; Maxim puts two bullets in his chest before the man finishes his first step.

Another tries to run.

Maxim shoots him in the back without blinking.

This isn’t justice. This is vengeance.

A door crashes open in the far wall—Dima and two more Bratva men flood in, rifles raised, their arrival late but decisive. The last of the cartel soldiers turn to fight and are mowed down in seconds, their resistance crushed beneath the black-suited force of retribution.

And then—

Silence.

Only one man remains.

Matías.

He’s on his knees, back to the wall, blood pouring from the gunshot in his shoulder. His breathing is ragged, but his eyesare still sharp. Defiant. Dangerous. Like a snake coiled even in death.

His pistol is gone, his men are dead. He looks at Maxim, then at Andrei—and laughs. A dry, rasping sound that echoes far too loud in the ruined space.

“So this is it,” he spits, blood on his teeth. “The Sharovs. Both of you.” He shakes his head, shoulders twitching in pain. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

He’s bleeding badly now, eyes wide with fear he’s too proud to show, the kind that leaks out through clenched teeth and shaking fingers. He tips forward—but catches himself with a hiss.

He’s trying to find his gun, but he’s out of time.

I can only watch as it all plays out.

Maxim steps forward slowly, boots crunching over shell casings and broken glass, his gun held steady at chest height. No shaking. No hesitation. Just cold, unrelenting aim.

He doesn’t rush, there’s no need.

Matías snarls, jaw clenched, breath coming fast through his nose. “You should be dead,” he growls, spitting the words like venom.

Maxim doesn’t blink. “You should’ve checked for a pulse.”

He fires one shot, straight through the center of Matías’s chest.

There’s no scream. No dramatic gasp. No monologue. Just a dull thud as his body folds in on itself and hits the ground.

Gone.

No redemption. No legacy.

Just blood pooling across the cracked floor.

The silence that follows is deafening. No gunfire. No shouting. Just the low hum of smoke and blood thickening the air. The ruined room holds its breath. Men—armed and trained—stand frozen as if afraid to speak, unsure if what they just witnessed was real.

Everyone is looking at Maxim.

Maxim lowers his gun slowly. His hand doesn’t shake. His face doesn’t change. He stares at Matías’s corpse for one long second—then turns his back on it like it means nothing.

Like the job is done and he already knew how it would end.

Andrei finally moves.

He pushes off the support beam, the wound in his shoulder still bleeding, the pain visible in the stiffness of his gait. His footsteps echo through the ruined room as he limps forward, gun lowered but still in hand.

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