Page 27 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

Nikita places a hand on my shoulder, her touch gentle but sending a ripple of nausea through me. “He’s a complex man, Mrs Baranova. His world is harsh, and he navigates it with ruthless determination. But there’s more to him than meets the eye. He has his reasons, even if he doesn’t show them.”

I nod, absorbing her words, trying to find solace in them. Despite the comforting words, a nagging doubt lingers in the depths of my heart. Can a man like Mikhail truly care for someone? Or am I just a pawn in a game far beyond my understanding?

Nikita hands me a fresh towel, and I dry my face, wiping away the remnants of tears and makeup. “Thank you,” I say.

She nods and leaves the bathroom while I remain alone for a moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The face that looks back at me is not just a woman marked by dried tears and anger; it’s a woman thrust into a world of danger and deception, bound to a man who walks a razor’s edge.

With a sigh, I straighten my posture, determination welling up within me. Mikhail may be distant, his world ruthless, but I won’t be a mere pawn in this game. I’ll find my own strength, my own place, and prove that I’m more than a weakness to be shoved away in a fancy penthouse.

Besides, didn’t I just drive a car in the middle of a goddamn shootout? I know I’m not weak if I can pull that off, even with Mikhail barking orders from the back seat.

As I step out of the bathroom, ready to face whatever comes next, I know that the road ahead won’t be easy. But I’m Gabriette Baranova now, and I’ll have to make my mark in this world, no matter how unforgiving it may be.

He said no more tears and to let them see my strength, If I’m going to be the wife of a future Bratva head, I need to learn this.

I just need to find a person who can teach me how to shoot a gun.

MIKHAIL

The walk to the makeshift holding cell we have in the building is a short one, but it’s enough time for me to prepare myself mentally for the unpleasantness that awaits.

The man is tied to a chair, beaten, bloodied but conscious. He grimaces as I enter the room, his eyes clouded with a mixture of fear and defiance.

“Who sent you?” I ask again, wasting no time on pleasantries.

The man hesitates, glancing nervously at Viktor standing in the corner of the room.

Seeing his reluctance to answer, frustration boils within me like a tempest ready to erupt. In a swift motion, I step forward, my fist connecting with his jaw with a sickening thud.

His head snaps to the side, a spray of blood accompanying the impact. The room reverberates with the sound, a harsh reminder of the brutality that underpins my world.

“Talk!” I snarl, my voice sharp as a blade. “Or I promise you, my fist will be the least of your worries.”

The man groans, blood dribbling down his split lip. Despite the pain etched on his face, he refuses to back down and curses.

I clench my jaw, the pulse in my temple matching the drumming beat of my anger. With controlled fury, I land another blow, this time striking his already battered face. Each punch is a cathartic release, a manifestation of the rage that simmers beneath my skin.

“I suggest you speak,” I growl, my patience at its end. “There’s the easy way, where you tell me who sent you.”

The man hesitates, darting his eyes toward Viktor again, who’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His face is badly bruised, swollen in places, but he can still speak. It’s a conscious choice we made to keep him able to communicate.

“And there’s the hard way, where I find out who you are after killing you, and send your family right afterward to join you,” I snarl, feeling the tendrils of my patience fraying.

He coughs, spitting out a glob of bloody saliva onto the floor. “You think you’re invincible, huh?”

“I’m Mikhail Baranov. I don’t think I’m invincible. I know I am,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can provoke me into killing you quickly. The less you speak, the longer this takes.”

His eyes meet mine, a futile challenge. The room is silent except for the ragged breaths of the man before me, each inhale a struggle against the pain.

“If you’re going to kill me anyway, why should I talk?”

I lean in close, my eyes locked onto his. “Because, depending on what you say, dying quickly might still be an option.”

For a moment, his facade wavers, and I can see the human instinct for self-preservation battling with whatever loyalty or vengeance-driven mission he’s on.

“A blood vendetta,” he finally mutters, his voice tinged with resignation. “Someone wants it claimed. Against you.”

“A blood vendetta,” I repeat, my mind spinning through a list of names, enemies both old and new. Vendettas are not uncommon in my world, but a blood vendetta is serious, a matter of honor, a claim that’s not easily ignored or set aside.

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