Page 70 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
“Alpha team encountering heavy resistance on the ground floor!” Matvei’s voice snarled through the comms, tight and raw. “They were waiting for us, fuckers are dug in.”
“Beta team breaching east entrance, three hostiles down.” Ilya’s report was calm, but beneath the surface, Irina could hear the fury barely contained.
Irina gripped the binoculars so tightly her knuckles turned white. Through the lenses, she watched shadows clash, men dropping like ragdolls, blood fountaining in sprays that painted walls and concrete in dark red. A man stumbled from cover, half his face missing, before collapsing in a twitching heap. Another tried to crawl away, intestines spilling like coils of rope from his abdomen, before a boot slammed down on his skull with a sickening crunch.
Gunfire was a constant roar now, short, sharp bursts; deafening volleys; the scream of ricochets. Her earpiece crackled with chaos: the snap of bones breaking, the wet, choking gurgle of a throat torn open, the dull thuds of bodies slamming into walls or falling from catwalks like broken dolls.
“I’ve got eyes on the target.” Adrian’s voice was a cold razor. “Second floor, northwest corner. She’s alive, restrained.”
Irina nearly collapsed with relief. Raya was alive. Through the blood and ruin, they weren’t too late.
“Multiple hostiles between me and the girl. Need backup. They’re using her as bait.”
“On our way,” Matvei growled.
“So are we,” Ilya followed, his tone glacial.
The response was immediate, merciless. Like a pack of wolves scenting blood, both Mafia families surged forward with terrifying unity. The rhythm of their violence was precise, almost surgical, gunshots punctuated by screams and the brutal impact of steel against bone. An enemy lunged from behind a crateand had his throat slit before he could scream, arterial blood spraying in a fan across the wall.
“Hostile down.”
“Left flank clear, watch the stairs!”
“I’ve got your six, Volkov.”
“Thanks, Nikolai.”
The calm exchange of cover and thanks between men who had wanted each other dead mere hours ago sent a chill through Irina’s bones. This was what they looked like when they weren’t tearing each other apart, a hydra of vengeance and violence, unstoppable and united.
“We’ve got her,” Matvei’s voice cracked in her ear. “Raya’s secure. She’s hurt, but she’s breathing.”
“Kozlov?” Viktor’s question came like a blade.
“Third floor. Cornered with his rats. Bastard’s bleeding and boxed in.”
“We’re going up,” Ilya said, voice as sharp as winter steel.
Then came the silence, not the absence of noise, but the tense, terrible stillness before a final kill. And then…
Gunfire. Short. Brutal. Final.
Three bursts. Echoes. Silence.
“Kozlov is dead,” Matvei announced, breathing hard. “His men are with him. It’s over.”
Irina exhaled in a broken sob. Her legs gave out, and she caught herself on the hood of the car, trembling all over. The adrenaline that had kept her upright drained in a rush, leaving her gasping like a swimmer breaking the surface after a deepdive. Blood still dripped from the warehouse windows. The air reeked of gunpowder, burnt flesh, and copper.
But it was over.
The man who had kidnapped her, who had tortured Raya, who had tried to rip two dynasties apart with terror and cruelty, was gone. And they were finally free.
“All teams, sound off,” she managed to say into her microphone.
One by one, the voices came through her earpiece. Her brothers, Matvei’s brothers, cousins, and trusted men from both families. A few injuries, nothing life-threatening. They had all made it through.
Twenty minutes later, she was running toward the warehouse entrance where medics were loading Raya into an ambulance. The girl’s face was bruised, and there was blood on her silver gown, but her eyes were alert and furious rather than broken.
“Irina!” Raya grabbed her hand as she approached the stretcher. “I knew you’d come for me. I knew you wouldn’t let that bastard win.”
