Page 20 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

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I nod once, cold and ready.

Let’s see who burns tonight.

***

The warehouse reeks of gunpowder and blood.

The Markovic men don’t see us coming.

They’re still trying to rip open the shipment crates when we breach the side entrance, silent and fast. I don’t wait for confirmation or a signal from my men. I take the lead and go in first.

The first man turns toward me—confused, slow.

I don’t give him a chance to speak. I shoot him clean through the forehead.

His body collapses like a sack of meat. One down.

I move like instinct. Like hunger. Like hell itself.

By the time the second man realizes what’s happening, I’ve already crossed the floor and slammed his head against the wall hard enough to crack his skull open like fruit.

Gunfire erupts behind me—my men laying down cover as we sweep the place clean.

I don’t stop. Don’t hesitate.

I catch a Markovic soldier by the throat and throw him against a stack of crates. He tries to crawl, spitting blood. I press my boot against his chest and fire three rounds into his gut, then his neck. Point-blank.

There are bodies everywhere.

They keep coming, but it doesn’t matter.

I don’t miss.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t feel.

This is where I’m most alive—when everything is fire and screams and blood pooling beneath my feet. I was made for this. I was bred for this.

I break a man’s arm.

Snap a neck.

Put a bullet in the mouth of the one who tried to beg.

Cowards.

When the dust settles, there’s only silence.

My men sweep through what’s left—checking for survivors. There won’t be any.

I holster my weapon and walk toward the cargo crates, blood dripping from my hands, staining the concrete. The shipment’s intact. Our munitions are safe. The territory—held.

I wipe the sweat from my face with the back of my hand, catching my reflection in the steel siding of a truck.

Bloodied. Bruised. Unbothered.

But then…I think of her.

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