Page 56 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
My resolve sharpens to a blade of its own.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Dimitri
The news comes sharp and direct, no hesitation in the voice delivering it. One of my spies, a man I trust enough to put in places that matter, confirms what I already feared. Annie. Taken. Under Gabriel Moreno’s orders.
The words hit like shrapnel, tearing through muscle, lodging deep in my chest where nothing can dig them out.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my face the mask my men expect. Cold. Indifferent. “She made her choice,” I say, dismissing the report with a wave of my hand, my tone flat as glass. “She’s nothing to me.”
That’s what I tell them. That’s what I tell myself.
When the door closes and silence fills the office, the weight presses too heavy. My body won’t stay still. I pace, each step carving into the rug, denial splintering under pressure.
Images I can’t control flash through my mind: Annie’s face twisted in fear. Moreno’s hands—Moreno’s filthy hands—anywhere near her.
My throat burns. My jaw locks. I try to shut it down, try to bury the fire under stone, but it rips through me anyway.
The chair goes first. I kick it hard enough that wood cracks, slamming against the wall with a splintering crash. The sound echoes, sharp and final. My control is gone.
I don’t hesitate. Keys in hand, I’m already barking orders in rapid Russian as I stalk through the halls. Men scramble, boots pounding on tile, weapons pulled from racks.
The air shifts instantly—everyone knows. Vehicles roar to life outside, engines ready, steel and fire waiting only for me to give the word.
The fury that drives me isn’t clean. It’s a storm that twists and snaps in every direction. Rage at Moreno for daring to think he can use her against me. Rage at Annie for putting herself in his path, for making me feel this. Rage at myself for letting her slip away, for pretending I could live without her.
I tell myself this is about power. About strength. About reminding every rival that Dimitri Sharov is not a man you touch through weakness.
I know the truth, the one I’ll never speak aloud.
It’s more dangerous than power. More dangerous than any war.
It’s the thought of losing her. Of never seeing her face again. Of never having the chance to stand before her and say the things I refused to admit when I still had her in my grasp.
I slam the door behind me as I step out into the storm, men falling into formation, trucks lined like teeth in the dark.
This isn’t business anymore.
This is blood. This is war. Moreno has already signed his death warrant.
***
The convoy tears through the night, engines growling like caged beasts, headlights slicing clean through sheets of rain. I ride at the front, rifle laid across my lap, a storm bottled tight in my chest. Every mile we eat up is a mile closer to him. Closer to her.
When the compound looms out of the shadows, it’s exactly as I expect—Moreno’s stronghold, ringed with guards, floodlights cutting through the storm, steel gates slick with rain. I don’t wait. Hesitation is death. I signal with one sharp motion, and my men surge forward.
The attack detonates with ruthless precision.
Gunfire cracks through the night, sharp and unrelenting. My men move like the blades I’ve forged them to be, cutting angles, driving wedges into Moreno’s defenses. I advance at the front, a predator through chaos, rifle raised and steady.
My voice cuts through the roar, commands clipped and lethal. Flank left. Cover fire. Push through.
The rifle kicks against my shoulder, barking flame and thunder. Each target drops, each body that falls nothing more than another step closer to her. The storm drowns out everything but the rhythm of violence—rain, fire, blood.
The air thickens with the stench of gunpowder and wet earth. Shouts ricochet off concrete walls, boots pounding as Moreno’s men scramble, stumbling over their own fear. They’re not ready for me. They never were.
I don’t slow. I don’t falter. Every motion is calculated, every shot placed with purpose. Men scream, collapse, vanish into mud. My path cuts straight toward the compound’s core, slicing through the confusion until there’s nothing left but the inevitability of my arrival.
Then he’s there.
