Page 16 of Beautifully Deranged

One of our men stumbles in, bloodied, panting, gripping his side. “Pakhan,” he gasps, addressing Roman first. “There’s a problem.”

The room stills.

“Speak.” Roman commands.

“A shipment was hit. We have bodies.”

“What shipment?” Roman’s voice is deadly.

“The drugs,” the man wheezes. “The ones meant for the Moroccans. Someone knew and planned this.”

Fucking hell.

“Who?” Roman snarls.

The man hesitates. “Daniil.”

That fucker. I never trusted him. If word gets out that we lost control of a shipment, that we can’t deliver... it’s not just money at stake. It’s power. And power is everything.

“You still want to keep your distance?” Roman drawls, but he already knows the answer. Because just like that, whether I want to or not, I'm in.

The warehouse is too quiet when we arrive.

I exit the sleek black Range Rover first, adjusting my cuffs. Roman moves beside me, Sergei and the others fanning out in a loose semicircle. We push through the rusted doors, and the stench of blood hits me immediately. Daniil is on his knees in a prayer position. Our best enforcer, Vadim, stands beside him, a bloody knife twirling between his fingers.

“He talked?” Roman asks.

Vadim grins. “Oh, he screamed.”

The bastard’s one good eye lifts to mine.

There’s fear there, but also resignation. He knows he won’t leave this room alive.

I crouch in front of him. “Where is it?”

A wet cough. “I told them where it was. They have it already.”

“Who?” I snarl.

His lips split open. “The Albanian cartel.” That was bold. And stupid.

Sergei lets out a dark chuckle. “They really think they can play in our city?”

“They sure made a statement.” I say.

Roman cracks his neck. “Then we respond accordingly.”

***

The Albanian safe house is tucked between abandoned factories. By the time we arrive, our men have already cut the power. My pulse slows. My breathing evens out. Sergei movesfirst, scaling the side of the building. Roman and I take the front. The guards outside never even see it coming. A silencer. Two shots. They drop.

I push the door open, stepping over their bodies. Inside, chaos erupts. Gunfire cracks through the dark. Men shout in Albanian. I move like a shadow, weaving between crates, dropping bodies. I catch a glimpse of Roman. He’s brutally efficient, a blade flashing in the dim light as he buries it deep into a man’s throat. He always preferred knives over bullets. Said it was more... primal.

Sergei takes a bullet to the vest but doesn’t even slow down. He slams a bastard’s head against the concrete until there’s nothing left but pulp. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood. Then silence. The room is littered with bodies.

Roman wipes a streak of blood from his cheek, breathing hard. “Check the shipment.”

We move to the back. The crates are there, untouched. I pry one open, running my fingers through the white powder inside. Pure. Uncut. It’s all here. Roman claps a hand on my shoulder. “Not bad, little brother.”

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