Page 68 of Scarred Bratva King

A low hum of adrenaline rushes through my veins. My jaw tightens as I glance toward the bookstore’s door.

I approach the car from behind, careful to keep my footsteps silent on the pavement. As I get closer, I hear faint murmursof conversation from inside the car, the radio playing low in the background. They don’t see me. They’re too focused on the bookstore.

Good.

I move quickly, ducking low as I come up to the back of the car. My coat conceals the gun holstered at my side, but I don’t draw it. A gunshot would attract too much attention. I have to do this clean.

The driver’s side door is closest. I grab the edge of it, yanking it open with one sharp motion. Before the driver can react, my fist slams into his jaw, the force snapping his head back against the seat. He’s out cold.

The man in the passenger seat swears, fumbling for the gun at his hip, but I’m already moving. I lunge forward, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply.

The weapon clatters to the floor as he howls in pain, but I cut him off with a sharp elbow to the temple. His body slumps against the door.

In the back seat, the two remaining men scramble to react, their movements clumsy in the cramped space. One manages to raise his gun, but I grab the barrel, slamming it upward.

The shot fires harmlessly into the roof of the car, and I use the distraction to yank him forward, my knee driving into his ribs. He gasps, the air knocked out of him, and I slam the side of his head into the car door. He collapses, groaning.

The last man doesn’t even have time to reach for his weapon before I grab him by the collar, dragging him halfway out of the car.

His fist swings wildly, but I duck, driving my shoulder into his chest and pinning him against the frame. My forearm presses against his throat as his eyes widen, the realization of his situation dawning too late.

“Where’s Marco?” I growl, my voice cold.

He hisses, his breath wheezing. “You’re too late. He’s already got her.”

“Wrong answer.” I press harder, and he chokes, clawing at my arm.

I kill him out with a silenced shot to his head.

Dumping him unceremoniously in the car, I quickly grab the guns from the floor and toss them into the trunk, slamming it shut. I take the keys with me.

The street is still quiet, the confrontation over before anyone could notice. Four men neutralized, and no one left to stop me from getting to Veronica.

I don’t waste another second. Turning, I move quickly toward the bookstore, my heart pounding.

Then I see it—blood.

A body lies crumpled near the entrance to the bookstore, its dark suit soaked crimson. My heart stops. Blood smears the pavement in chaotic streaks, as if the man had tried to keep moving.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be safe. That’s one of her guards. A good man. Dead. My fault. I should have sent more men. Should have guessed this might happen.

It was a calculated risk. Too many men and Marco wouldn’t take the bait, wouldn’t come to get her. I know he’s been watching, biding his time, waiting for her to be away from me. I couldn’t find his hiding place so I needed to draw him out.

So I sent her with two men to her bookstore. The plan was to become Pakhan, then come here and wait for him to pounce. Only he moved faster than I expected and I sent too few men.

My chest tightens, fear clawing its way up my throat.What if she’s dead?The thought barrels through me, cold and relentless.What if I’m too late? What if I never get to tell her I did this for her…

I’m moving before I consciously register it, my hand gripping the gun at my side. The weight of it is familiar, steady, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside me.

She has to be alive. She has to be.

The door to the bookstore swings open slightly, as if beckoning me inside. My jaw clenches as I step forward. The metallic scent of blood hits me the moment I cross the threshold.

The store is in shambles. Shelves toppled, books scattered and torn, dark smears of blood streaked across the floor.

My eyes sweep the room, cataloging everything. More blood leading into the back.

My thoughts spiral. Images of her—broken, lifeless—flash through my mind, but I shove them down, forcing my focus to stay sharp.

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