Page 1 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
Prologue – Maxim
Six Years Ago
The warehouse on Prague’s outskirts looked like death warmed over, all crumbling concrete and rusted metal that screamed abandonment. Midnight had settled over the city like a shroud, bringing with it the kind of cold that bit through leather and found bone. The air tasted of coming snow and something else. Something metallic that made my gut clench.
Blood. I could smell it before I could see it.
“You sure this Croatian bastard knows what he’s doing?” Rafael’s voice cut through the silence, low and careful. He stood next to me, his massive frame blocking most of the light from the single bulb swaying overhead. His breath came out in white puffs that dissipated into nothing, just like most men who crossed us.
I adjusted my grip on the Makarov tucked beneath my coat, the weight familiar and comforting. “Been using him for three years. Small, efficient, clean. Arms in, cash out, no fucking noise. That’s the promise.”
But promises were like whores in this business. Pretty to look at, but they’d fuck you over the moment you stopped paying attention.
The warehouse stretched out before us like a concrete tomb, filled with shadows that danced between broken machinery and shipping containers. Seventeen windows, most boarded up. Four exits, three probably welded shut. If someone wanted to set a trap, this shithole was perfect for it.
My photographic memory catalogued every detail automatically. Every blind spot, every angle, every place a man could hide and put a bullet in your brain. It was a habit that had kept me breathing when better men were feeding worms.
“Where the fuck is he?” Rafael checked his Rolex, gold catching the weak light. “Said midnight sharp.”
“Patience.” The word tasted like ash. We’d been standing here nine minutes too long, and in this business, nine minutes was enough time to die twice over.
The first crate sat between us and the shadows, packed with enough firepower to level half of Prague. Kalashnikovs, Berettas, ammunition that would make angels weep. The kind of merchandise that kept Bratva overseas operations running smooth as aged vodka and twice as deadly.
That’s when I heard it. Boot on concrete. Wrong direction. Too many feet.
“Rafael.”
He heard the warning in my voice, hand already moving toward his weapon. We’d bled together enough times that words weren’t necessary. He knew death was coming before the first muzzle flash lit up the darkness.
The ambush hit like a fucking avalanche.
Gunfire erupted from three positions at once, muzzle flashes strobing through the warehouse like deadly lightning. The sound was deafening, bullets chewing through metal and concrete like they were made of tissue paper. Sparks showered down like hellish rain.
“Fucking setup!” I roared, diving behind a shipping container as rounds sparked inches from my head. My Makarov was in my hand before I hit the ground, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.
Rafael rolled left, surprisingly graceful for a man his size, finding cover behind a stack of wooden pallets. The wood exploded around him, splinters flying like shrapnel. “How many?” he shouted over the chaos.
I counted muzzle flashes, calculated angles, processed information faster than most men could blink. “Eight, maybe ten. Positioned like they knew exactly where we’d be standing.”
And they fucking did know. Someone had sold us out. Someone close enough to know the details, the timing, the exact location. Someone who was going to scream for mercy before I put them in the ground.
A bullet punched through the container wall near my ear, close enough that I felt the heat kiss my skin. I returned fire, two quick shots toward the nearest flash. A grunt echoed through the warehouse, then silence from that position.
One down.
“Maxim!” Rafael’s voice was strained, different. I glanced over to see dark blood spreading across his white shirt like spilled wine. Gut shot. Bad fucking news.
The rage that hit me was pure and clean, burning through my veins like liquid fire. These bastards had walked into our house, our deal, our business, and put a bullet in my brother. That was a mistake that would cost them everything.
But the gunfire kept coming, relentless and coordinated. Professional shooters, not street trash. They knew their business, which made this infinitely worse. I pressed myself against the container, feeling bullets punch through the steel like it was cardboard.
“Rafael, how bad?” I called out.
“Bad enough.” His voice was steady, but I could hear the pain underneath. Tough bastard. Most men would be screaming by now.
More muzzle flashes from the northeast corner. I had two choices: stay pinned down and die slow or move and maybe die fast. In this business, fast was always better.
I broke from cover, using the maze of containers and machinery to get behind them. The warehouse became myhunting ground, every shadow and blind spot a weapon to be used. My boots were silent on the concrete, years of practice making me a ghost.
