Page 5 of Twisted Vows

Coffee in hand, I returned to the command center and Valentina’s domain.

“What have you got for me?” I asked, scanning the data streams that flickered across her displays.

She swiveled in her chair to face me fully, her expression grave. “It’s bad. They’ve infiltrated deeper than we thought.”

My jaw clenched as I absorbed the gravity of her words. This wasn’t just an attack. It was an invasion.

“We’ll purge the system,” I said firmly, rolling up my sleeves. “And then we’ll make them regret ever crossing us.”

Valentina nodded, her fingers already flying across the keyboard with lightning speed. Together, we delved into the digital battlefield. The Armenians had declared war on our turf—both in flesh and in cyberspace—and we would respond in kind. This was our world, these were our rules, and we would protect it at any cost.

***

Late the next evening, Malachi and I navigated the dimly lit alleys, our footsteps muffled by the damp pavement. The scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke wafted from the nondescript doorway ahead.

I caught Malachi’s eye, speaking without words. A lifetime of unspoken communication built on mutual trust and proving ourselves made that unnecessary. With a short nod, he took the lead, his broad shoulders cutting through the haze of smoke that billowed from the speakeasy’s entrance.

The din of raucous laughter and clinking glasses assaulted our senses as we stepped inside, the air thick with the mingled aromas of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume. Malachi scanned the room with a predator’s gaze, his eyes narrowing as they settled on a secluded booth in the far corner.

There was the Armenian contingent, their smug grins and boisterous jeers a blatant challenge to our authority. Malachi’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing as if already anticipating the violence to come.

“They’re getting sloppy,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the noise.

I nodded, my pulse quickening as the thrill of the hunt coursed through my veins. “Arrogance is a dangerous vice.”

We wove our way through the throng of revelers, our movements fluid and purposeful, like sharks cutting through turbulent waters. The Armenians caught sight of us, their laughter dying on their lips as they registered the storm brewing.

“Woof,” said one of them with a mocking sneer, his words slurred by the haze of inebriation. “If it isn’t the bratva’s lap dogs, come to beg for scraps.”

Malachi’s fist connected with the man’s jaw before he could utter another syllable, the sickening crunch of bone reverberating through the sudden hush that fell over the room. The Armenian crumpled to the floor, his companions scrambling to their feet with a chorus of guttural curses.

In an instant, the air was charged with the electric tension of impending violence, the scent of sweat and adrenaline mingling with the stale odors of the dive bar. I ducked a wild haymaker, my fist sinking into the soft flesh of my assailant’s midsection with a satisfying grunt.

Malachi was a whirlwind of controlled fury, his movements precise and lethal as he systematically dismantled his opponents with brutal efficiency. A spray of crimson arced through the air as his elbow shattered a nose, the sickly crunch of cartilage punctuating the chaos.

I winced at the sting of a glancing blow across my cheekbone, as I retaliated with a vicious uppercut that sent my attacker staggering backward. The world narrowed to a singular focus—the primal dance of fists and flesh, the grunts and curses echoing like a savage symphony.

Malachi’s back was to mine, our movements synchronized in a deadly choreography born of countless battles fought side by side. We were a well-oiled machine, a force to be reckoned with, and the Armenians were quickly realizing the folly of their arrogance.

A chair splintered against the wall mere inches from my head, shards of wood raining down like shrapnel. I pivoted, my fist connecting with the assailant’s temple in a dull thud that dropped him like a puppet with severed strings.

The coppery tang of blood permeated the air, blending with the acrid stench of sweat and fear. Bodies littered the floor, groaning and twitching in the aftermath of our wrath. Malachi stood tall, his chest heaving, his knuckles split and raw from the onslaught.

“Enough,” he said, his voice a rumble of restrained fury. “Let this be a lesson to those who dare cross us.”

The remaining Armenians cowered in the shadows, their bravado extinguished. They had tasted the full force of our retribution, and the bitter aftertaste would linger for a long while.

I wiped the back of my hand across my split lip, tasting blood. The fight had been brutal, but necessary—a visceral reminder that in our world, strength and dominance were the only currencies that mattered.

Malachi’s gaze swept over the fallen men, his eyes narrowing as he singled out two of them. “Those two,” he pointed to them, “are coming with us.”

I followed his line of sight, recognizing the men he had chosen. They were a pair of hardened thugs, whose loyalty to their gang was etched into the lines of their weathered faces. They might be difficult to break, but so would any of them.

Without a word, I strode over to the first man, hauling him to his feet with a brutal grip on his collar. He snarled and spat, his defiance a futile gesture against the strength of my grasp juxtaposed with his current weakened state.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said harshly, his words slurred by the swelling that had already begun to distort his features.

I met his gaze unflinchingly, my expression a mask of cold indifference. “You'll be the one with regrets from crossing the Yelchin Bratva.”

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