Page 2 of Twisted Vows

Then, as if snapping out of a trance, Nika blinked rapidly and drew back. “I should get back to work,” she stammered, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

I watched her retreat to the other end of the counter, a slow, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The shrill ringing of my phone shattered the tranquil silence that had enveloped me in the aftermath of my encounter with Nika. Frowning, I fished the device from the depths of my pocket, my brow furrowing as Rurik’s name flashed across the screen.

A sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach as I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear with a terse, “Malachi.”

Rurik’s voice crackled through the line, laced with a sense of urgency that sent a chill racing down my spine. “Malachi, you need to get to the warehouse. Now.”

His words hung heavy in the air, weighted with an unspoken gravity that sent my instincts into overdrive. Rurik wasn’t one to mince words or indulge in unnecessary theatrics. If he was calling me with such urgency, something had gone terribly wrong.

“What’s happened?” I demanded, my voice a low growl that brooked no argument. Pushing away from the counter, I cast a fleeting glance at Nika, her brow furrowed with concern at the sudden shift in my demeanor.

Rurik’s response was clipped, laced with a barely contained fury that sent a chill racing down my spine. “The Armenians. They hit the warehouse hard.”

A torrent of curses spilled from my lips, my free hand clenching into a tight fist as the implications of his words sank in. The warehouse was more than just a storage facility. It was the beating heart of our operation, a veritable treasure trove of weapons, contraband, and sensitive information.

If the Armenians had breached its walls, the consequences could be catastrophic.

“I’m on my way.” I ended the call with a sharp jab of my thumb. Spinning on my heel, I fixed Nika with a steely gaze.

“I have to go. Business calls.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parting as if to protest, but I silenced her with a curt shake of my head. There was no time for explanations, and no room for the niceties that typically colored our interactions.

With a curt nod, I turned and strode toward the exit, my mind already racing with contingency plans and potential countermeasures. The Armenians had made a grave mistake, one that wouldn’t go unanswered.

The drive to the warehouse was a blur, the city streets melting into a haze of neon lights and blaring horns as I weaved through traffic with reckless abandon. My knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel with a vice-like intensity that threatened to leave permanent indentations in the leather.

As I pulled into the deserted lot, the first tendrils of dread began to coil in the pit of my stomach. The warehouse loomed before me, its hulking silhouette casting long shadows in the fading light of dusk.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The heavy steel doors hung ajar, their hinges twisted and mangled as if they had been ripped from their moorings by sheer brute force. Shards of broken glass littered the ground, glittering like diamonds in the pale glow of the streetlights.

Drawing my weapon, I advanced with cautious steps, every muscle in my body coiled tight with anticipation. The acrid stench of smoke and gunpowder hung heavily in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of spilled blood.

As I stepped through the shattered doorway, the scene that greeted me was one of utter chaos. Crates lay strewn about, their contents spilled across the floor in a tangled mess of weapons, ammunition, and contraband. Bullet holes riddled the walls, their jagged edges proof of the ferocity of the battle that had raged within these walls.

A low growl rumbled in my throat as I took in the carnage, my grip tightening on the handle of my weapon. The Armenians would pay dearly for this transgression.

A sudden movement in my peripheral vision snapped me to attention, tensing as I whirled to face the threat. Rurik emerged from the shadows, his face a mask of grim determination that mirrored my own.

“Malachi,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“What happened here?” I demanded, my gaze sweeping over the devastation that surrounded us.

His jaw clenched, eyes hardening with a fury that burned brighter than the hottest forge. “The Armenians hit us hard and fast,” he said, his words laced with venom. “They knew exactly where and when to strike.”

A chill raced down my spine as the implications of his words sank in. This was no mere act of retaliation or territorial dispute. This was a calculated, surgical strike, executed with a level of precision that spoke of insider knowledge.

“We have a rat,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. “Someone on the inside sold us out.”

With a curt nod, he acknowledged my theory. “Whoever it is, they’re going to pay. With their life.”

The acrid stench of smoke and gunpowder tainted the air, stinging my nostrils with each labored breath. My gaze swept over the devastation that surrounded us, taking in the shattered crates and spilled contraband that littered the floor like the aftermath of a warzone.

Rurik’s words echoed in my mind, a grim reminder of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against us. A rat. Someone within our ranks had sold us out to the Armenians, compromising our security and leaving us vulnerable to attack.

A low growl rumbled in my throat as I clenched my jaw, tightening my grip on the handle of my weapon until my knuckles turned white. Whoever did this would be sorry.

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