Page 64 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
Bullet holes adorned the ceiling and walls.
I slammed my knees into his ribs over and over, but the motherfucker wouldn’t let go of the gun. He hit me in the face with his free hand, and I retaliated with a kick to his groin. He groaned, his grip on the gun loosening, and that’s when I snatched it from him.
However, he was quick to knock it off before I could even aim at him. The man unsheathed a blade and came at me with violent strikes. I dodged his advances, throwing kicks and punches. The air was filled with the sounds of our grunts and the smell of gunpowder.
I snatched a knife from the rack and armed myself with it. Now, it was a fair fight. Blades glinted in the morning light as they slashed through the air with deadly precision. The brawl was more intense than I thought, with neither of us yielding to the other.
Another armed assailant barged in through the front door, rifle aimed toward the kitchen. The man’s presence was a welcome distraction, a window against my opponent who’d glanced at his colleague a little longer than he should’ve.
I dented his head into the countertop and used him as a human shield. The newcomer fired three times, but my opponent’s body absorbed the shots. All of them. I flipped the knife in my hand and hurled it at the shooter. The blade stuck in his chest, forcing him to fall backward from the impact of the throw.
Three more came rushing in through the front door, armed to the teeth. I picked up a discarded rifle and opened fire. Bodies dropped, and more invaded the house—some through the door, others through the window.
It was an intense fight: one man against an army. The deafening sound of gunfire filled the room, bullets spraying like perfume. Bodies dropped like flies, and the living room was a warzone. Tables were flipped over, couches torn apart under the storm of bullets. With each blast, geysers of foam erupted as rounds tore through the space.
I fought with everything at my disposal—wooden stakes, knives, guns, and even my fists. When I ran out of bullets, I turned anything I could grab into a makeshift weapon. Armed or not, I was just as deadly.
By the time the destruction was over, silence followed the storm, and I stood alone at the center of the carnage. Triumphant. My chest and shoulders heaved with heavy breaths, my skin slick with the blood of my victims.
About twenty men were sent after me, and the same number of lifeless bodies sprawled at my feet. They should’ve sent more because it would take a lot more than just twenty trained men to bring me down.
I heard movements behind me, and with that much adrenaline still coursing through me, I turned around with a knife, ready to attack.
“Wait! It’s just me!” Wren lifted her hands in surrender, and the sheets wrapped around her slid down her body.
I lowered the knife, panting as I watched her pick up the fallen sheets to cover her nakedness.
My eyes squinted as I sensed another presence, a more foreboding one that sent a chill crawling up my spine. A signature whistle drifted through the air in song form: playful, yet sinister. A pair of heavy footsteps approached the front door, slow and deliberate.
I recognized that sound—that whistle. It was him.
Volchok: the Little Wolf. Except, there was nothing little about him, considering he was almost twice my size.
The man was one of the Bratva’s deadliest assassins, known to have never lost a fight. Rumor had it that no soul had crossed his path and lived to tell the tale. He was one of the few men that the Bratva Elders would send after a formidable enemy that had been accused of treason.
This was a ritual—a fight to the death. If the accused somehow won the fight, they’d earn their freedom. The only downside was that no one had ever won against these men. And so, in essence, the ritual was just a death sentence.
I glanced out at the door and then faced Wren again, my voice laced with urgency. “Get back upstairs. Now.” I gestured to the bedroom.
“What’s the matter, Valarian?” Volchok walked in through the door and stopped at the entrance. “Afraid to get your ass kicked in front of your little whore?”
My expression darkened, fingers curling into fists.
He glanced at the dead bodies sprawled across the room and nodded his bald head. “I see you haven’t lost your touch.”He let out a snarky scoff. “When they told me you’d eloped with some American whore, I thought to myself, how the mighty has fallen.”
I clenched my jaw, brows furrowing to form deep creases between them as my blood boiled with rage. “Call her a whore one more time…I dare you.”
A cocky grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “There he is. There’s the killer worth my time.”
He charged at me, unsheathing two blades that glinted in the light.
“Wren, run!” I bellowed, sidestepping from a strike that would’ve split me in half.
He swung again but missed, his blade slashing through the air over my head. I did a somersault away from another strike. And while in motion, I snatched the broken surface of the coffee table. He struck again, and I used the wood as a shield.
The impact was so powerful that the blade cut the wood in half. Without thinking, I rolled over to his feet, jabbing the wood’s pointed edge into the back of his thighs.
He groaned in pain, dropping one of his blades. I didn’t stop stabbing his flesh in the same spot. Before he could make another move, I swung beneath him, strategically trapping his foot between my legs.
