Page 172 of Ruined Vows
I tore through them with nothing but that promise in my pocket.Wait for me. One more date. One more night.
I didn’t die.
Now I just have to survive long enough to show her what that means.
And I walk back into the night with only one thought in my mind. I’m going home.
I leave fire in my wake. Real. Consuming. A message written in smoke and ash. I’m returning to her.
Before me, the compound is wrapped in dusk, shadows stretched like fingers over cracked stone and steel gates. It’s almost beautiful.
I’ve studiedthis place for months and memorized its choke points, escape routes, and guard rotations. But tonight, it’s different.
Tonight, I’m not here as a tactician. I’m here as a man with nothing left to lose.
I gesture to Luka. He nods once, slipping around the building’s left side to cut off the back door. Dragan moves on my signal, quiet as death, taking up his position near the loading dock.
I move next, a low sprint across the street. My boots are silent against wet asphalt. My back presses to the warehouse’s side wall, breath held, blood thrumming.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Go.
I breach the side door fast—boot to metal, one fluid motion. First guard drops—two center-mass shots. Second lunges from cover. I spin, slam my elbow into his throat, drag him into the wall, pistol to temple. One shot. Done.
Quick. Efficient.
No mercy.
I sweep the ground floor, corner to corner. Nothing. Then I hit the stairs. Take them two at a time. My heart pounds harder with each step.
Radovan’s close. I feel it crawling up my spine.
“The second floor is clear in sections A and B,” Luka says in my ear. “Movement in section C.”
Already moving.
I catch the flash of movement down the hall—boots vanishing around a corner.
Radovan.
A snarl rises in my throat. I bolt after him, concrete echoing under my feet. He fires a shot back—wild. I duck. It pings off the wall behind me.
Coward.
Just like at Bianca’s café. Just like always.
Not tonight.
He stumbles through a door. I crash into it a beat later, shoulder-first, blasting it open—his gun swings up too slowly.
“No one touches what’s mine,” I growl.
I fired once. It’s a shoulder hit—his body twists, drops, and his gun skitters away.
