Page 66 of Scarred Bratva King

In the blink of an eye, the men explode into motion. The nearest intruder lunges at my guard, his fist colliding with the guard’s jaw in a sickening crack.

The second man pulls a knife from his pocket, slashing at the other guard’s arm as he emerges from the back.

“Get down!” someone shouts, and I don’t think—I drop behind the counter, my heart hammering in my chest.

Gunfire shatters the quiet serenity of the store, bullets splintering wood and sending books tumbling from the shelves. I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my panicked breaths, curling into a tight ball beneath the counter.

I hear grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, and more gunshots. My pulse races as I peer around the edge of the counter, trying to make sense of the madness.

One of my security guards is down for good, blood pooling beneath him. The other is locked in a brutal struggle with one of the intruders, but it’s clear he’s losing ground. “Run,” he gasps at me as hands slip around his throat.

I duck back as another bullet whizzes past, burying itself in the wall behind me. My fingers tighten around the box cutter in my hand, the blade shaking slightly.

I sprint out the back door of the bookstore. Behind me, the sound of scuffling footsteps grows louder.

I glance over my shoulder and see the two attackers emerging from the doorway, their faces twisted into cruel grins.

My guard bursts out but just as I’m hoping he’ll help, he slumps against the wall near the dumpster, unmoving. It’s just me now. Me and two armed men.

“Marco wants to see you,” the taller one says with a grin. “You remember him, right? Why’d you pick a Ruski prick when you could be eating real Italian meat?”

My pulse hammers in my ears as I grip the box cutter tighter. My fingers are shaking, but I force myself to point it at the men. Project confidence, that’s what I was taught.

“Stay back!” My voice is louder than I expect, the tremor in it betraying the fear I’m trying to suppress.

One of the men laughs—a deep, guttural sound that chills me to my core. “What are you going to do with that, sweetheart?”

I don’t respond.

He kicks a piece of broken glass across the ground as he steps closer. “What now, little girl?”

I square my shoulders, planting my feet firmly on the ground, remembering everything Maxim taught me. “We do this mano a mano.”

They laugh, but it’s not the laugh of men with humor.

I remember what Maxim told me. Sometimes you have to act. To kill without thinking, without guilt.

As the first man lunges at me, I sidestep, pivoting sharply, and slam the box cutter into his ribs. He grunts in pain, stumbling, but I don’t stop there. Now I understand why Maxim slit that guy’s throat.

I pull it back and dig it in again, pushing as far into his chest as I can. At the same time, my knee comes up, catching him in the balls, and he drops to the ground with a groan, blood pouring from his body.

The second man doesn’t give me time to recover. He grabs me from behind, his arm locking around my throat, pulling me against his chest.

“Feisty one,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “What are you going to do now?”

I thrash, my hands clawing at his arm as I try to break free. My heart pounds wildly, fear and adrenaline surging through me.

“Get off me!” I scream, twisting and stomping on the man’s foot, trying to loosen his grip.

“You’ve got nowhere to run,” he sneers, forcing the box cutter from my hand. “Might as well make it easy on yourself.”

I prepare myself to break free, but just as I’m abut to twist my hands and knock him off balance I freeze.

From the end of the alley, looking like the cat who got the cream, Marco Gorlami is prowling toward me.

31

MAXIM

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