Page 178 of Ruined Vows
No matter how bleak or scary the day looks, she doesn’t flinch. I love that about her. She’s a warrior, but I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her, especially now. It’s not just her, but the innocent life inside her.
Besides, she’s mine to protect.
So I told her, “No.” No, she can’t join my men. She hates it, but this is bigger than us. So she watched me load up communications and weapons, and I headed out with my men. We’ll hunt him until there’s nowhere for him to hide.
We tracked him for two days. David finds the first trail—one of Milan’s errand boys caught on grainy CCTV leaving a drop point in Novo Sarajevo. Dragan intercepts the comms chatter. Luka pulls a name from a warehouse ledger that shouldn’t exist. It leads us to a farmhouse off a dead road, tucked between crumbling pine and silence.
He’s hiding like a rat.
We’re already inside the walls before he realizes the game’s over.
This isn’t war.
This is justice with a pulse. We move without words. We’ve done this too many times before.
Dragan breaches the main entrance—fast, clean. David and Luka sweep the perimeter, dealing with the guards like it's nothing. One cries out, and Luka silences him before the echo even finishes—a sharp crack. Bone and breath gone in the exact second.
I came for blood. I don't need a gun. By the time I hit the stairs, my heart isn’t racing. My hunt for justice is cold, hard, and calculated.
This isn’t adrenaline; it’s fury that I control like a scalpel, it’s precise.
I find Milan alone in the cellar. He’s pacing in the dark, surrounded by crates and his rotting legacy.
When I enter, his eyes widen—just a flicker of recognition, and then his arrogance bubbles up.
“Vukan, I figured you’d come. We can talk….”
I cut him off with a slam of the door behind me. I’ve also cut off his exit. I move in silence, circling him like a boxer.
“I didn’t mean for the girl—” he starts.
Wrong fucking words. I strike him, one punch—center mass. Ribs crack beneath my knuckles. He stumbles back, choking. “We’re family?—”
I slam him against the wall.
“You sent a bomb to a children’s shelter,” I yell.
“She didn’t even?—”
I grab his throat. “She’s pregnant.” My voice is raspy.
His face goes pale.
“You didn’t know?” I snarl. “That’s the problem. You don’tthink.You don’tsee.You strike and hope you survive what follows. But this time, there is no surviving.”
He claws at my grip, but he’s weak. He’s the one who’s soft, not me. He’s filled his stomach with meat and ale and let his men do all the work. He’s suckled off the teat of others’ hard work for decades, and now it comes home.
“I begged Miloš to cut you loose years ago,” he wheezes. “You were always too feral?—”
I slam my fist into his face until I hear the bone crack beneath my hand. Blood decorates the concrete wall like a Pollock painting.
“I should kill you with my gun,” I say, breathing hard. “But you don’t deserve the distance.”
He tries to crawl away, but I drag him back by the collar, and I end it with my hands.
My knuckles are bruised, and some skin is split. I might be bleeding, but my rage has simmered. It felt great to hit him, to kill him, and when he stops moving, I don’t even look at the body.
David steps into the cellar doorway. He doesn’t flinch. He waits like a good soldier.
