Chapter 26

The scent of gunpowder fills the air as we approach the perimeter of the warehouse. My crew—Lev, Grigori, Elena, Yuri, and a squad of our best and most trusted men—moves like a well-oiled machine, our steps synchronized as we move in. Gunfire continues to erupt around us in a malicious symphony as we dive headlong into the fray.

“Lev left flank! Grigori, you’re with me. Yuri, cover our six!” I shout, my voice cutting through the noise as we advance, bullets whizzing past us. Sharon’s goons are putting up a fight, but they’re scattered, their fire erratic. It’s clear they weren’t prepared for a full-on Bratva assault.

Elena, ever the sharpshooter, takes out a shooter on the roof, her precision unmatched. “Got him,” she calls out, a hint of satisfaction in her tone.

“Keep the pressure on! They’re breaking!” I yell, rallying my family and our heavies. We’re a storm—relentless and unforgiving—closing in on Sharon’s last line of defense.

But just as we’re tightening the noose, Elena’s urgent and grave voice cuts through the commotion. “Luk, we’ve got trouble!” she shouts, ducking for cover as she waves her phone at me.

I make my way over to her, bullets zinging past. “What’s going on?” I demand, the rhythm of my heart syncing with the rapid fire around us.

Elena’s expression is dismal, her eyes locked on mine. “It’s Sharon—I’m listening in on her line. She’s called in reinforcements, a lot of them. They’re on their way.”

The news hits like a ton of bricks, and the brief taste of victory I was tasting turns sour. We’re outnumbered but not outmatched—not yet. My mind races, strategizing, calculating our next move in milliseconds. “All right, listen up!” I bark to my crew, my voice calm but filled with deadly intent. “They’re coming for a fight,” I call out, reloading my weapon. “Let’s give them one they won’t forget.”

The anticipation of the approaching enemy tightens the air, the warehouse a battlefield set for a clash where both sides will fight to the death. We’re ready, each of us prepared to lay it all on the line—for family, for honor, and love.

Grigori and I move with purpose, our steps calculated and swift, as we circle around to the side of the building. The air is electric, charged with the imminent threat of conflict. Just as we round the corner, one of Sharon’s men, thinking he’s got the drop on us, steps out, gun raised.

He doesn’t stand a chance.

Grigori’s on him in a heartbeat, a silent shadow closing the gap. The guy barely has time to register his surprise before Grigori’s hands are on him. A swift, precise strike to the throat stifles any cry for help; a follow-up knee to the gut has him doubled over. Grigori finishes with a sharp twist, an arm lock that causes the man to hit the ground hard. He’s disarmed and neutralized in seconds. The first of Sharon’s reinforcements make their appearance from the back, a ragtag crew thinking they’re about to turn the tide. They’re met with Grigori’s unyielding defense, his gunfire a relentless barrage that pins them down. “Keep them busy!” I call out, leaving him to hold the line.

I slip into the warehouse, the sounds of the battle outside fading as I step into the lion’s den. It’s eerily quiet inside—too quiet. I walk forward, every sense heightened, ready for whatever comes next.

The interior of the warehouse is a maze of crates and shadows, a perfect spot to stage an ambush. I move carefully, my gun at the ready, scanning for any sign of Sharon or her thugs. My heart pounds not just from the adrenaline of the fight but also from the knowledge that Maura’s somewhere in this place, depending on me to get her out.

I can almost feel Sharon’s malignant presence. She’s close—I can sense it. She’s taken something irreplaceable from me, and I’m here to take it back.

I walk farther into the warehouse, the silence shattered by the occasional crack of gunfire from Grigori. He’s breached the concrete jungle. Briefly, I take comfort in knowing he’s inside. Each shot is a reminder that we’re running out of time; however, the enemy is at our doorstep. I push forward, driven by the need to end this, to rescue Maura and get my crew out safely, and to make sure Sharon pays for every transgression.

Grigori approaches silently and flanks me with a silent nod. We press on, methodically clearing section after section of the warehouse. Every corner we turn, every shadow we check, could be hiding death, but we move forward, undeterred. The goons are tough, but they’re no match for the Bratva’s might. I can feel the tide turning in our favor, the confidence in our victory mounting with each man we take down.

And then, as if summoned by my resolve, they appear—more of Sharon’s thugs, lurking in the dim light of the second floor, guns drawn, ready to defend their fallen empire to the last.

But they’re not ready for what I’m about to bring.

The first man doesn’t even see me coming as I approach swiftly and silently from behind. One precise strike to the back of the head, and he’s down, unconscious, before he hits the ground. I move again before his comrades can react, sliding between shadows like a phantom.

Another man rounds a corner, gun raised, but he’s too slow. With two steps, I’m on him, disarming him with a practiced twist of his arm that leaves him yelping in pain. I give one quick jab to the temple, and he joins his buddy on the floor, out cold.

The way I move through them is methodical, almost mechanical. Each takedown is a message carved in silence and shadow. I’m the predator, the reaper in the dark. Each fallen man is a testament to my promise, my resolve to protect what’s mine.

The warehouse may be their territory, but I’ve turned it into my hunting ground. With every man who drops, I’m one step closer to Maura, one step closer to ending this nightmare. Sharon’s minions may have thought they were the hunters, but they’ve quickly learned that they’re the prey.

I make my way onto the roof with Grigori close behind me, backing me up. Sharon, venomous as ever, stands there next to Maura, who’s a picture of defiance despite her perilous situation. Rory is also there. He’s a mountain of a man who is barely containing the rage that brews within him. He turns his fury toward me.

Without a word, he charges, a human juggernaut fueled by loyalty or madness or perhaps both—I can’t tell which. The fight is on, a clash of raw power against trained precision. Rory’s size makes him formidable, but in the tight space of the rooftop, it also makes him predictable.

He swings, a move that would incapacitate any normal man, but I’m already a step ahead, ducking under his arm, using his momentum against him. The dance of combat is brutal—Rory’s strength versus my agility—a test of endurance I cannot afford to lose.

With a feint and pivot, I exploit an opening, landing a series of strikes designed to disorient. Rory staggers, his resilience waning, but he’s relentless, coming back at me with an almost admirable ferocity.

The decisive moment comes unexpectedly—a misstep from Rory, perhaps born of his blinding rage or sheer exhaustion. Seizing the chance, I maneuver him toward the edge; his own momentum carries him forward. With a final push, Rory’s hulking frame tumbles over the edge and to the ground.

Sharon is clearly shocked by her lover’s defeat. But I’m ready to finish the fight. I remove my weapon from its holster and train it directly on Sharon’s forehead.

“You’re too late, Luk!” Sharon sneers, her voice a twisted melody of assumed triumph and threat. “Drop your weapon, or I’ll kill her.” She presses the barrel of her gun to Maura’s temple; I want to take her apart limb from limb.

Maura, always defiant and strong, meets my gaze with fierce determination. “Don’t listen to her, Luk,” she says, her voice steady but betraying none of the fear she must be feeling.

I keep my gun trained on Sharon, weighing my options in a fraction of a second. “Let her go, Sharon. This ends now,” I demand, my voice a low growl.

Sharon’s laugh is hollow and devoid of humanity. “You think you’ve won, Luk? I still hold the cards here. Make one move, and she’s dead.”

But Maura’s not one to be underestimated. In a swift motion, she elbows Sharon in the ribs, creating just enough space between them. “Luk, now!” she shouts, seizing the moment that Sharon’s distracted.

It’s all the opening I need. I fire my weapon, the shot echoing across the rooftop. The bullet finds its mark, blasting the gun from Sharon’s hand and sending it skittering across the concrete.

Maura doesn’t hesitate. She runs straight to me, her relief visible even in the midst of the madness. I wrap an arm around her, pulling her in close, my gun still trained on Sharon.

“It’s over,” I say, my voice devoid of any emotion, my tone as hard as steel. The gun remains steady in my hand, continuing to relay a clear message. “You don’t hold the cards, Sharon. You’ve lost.”