Page 180 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

But instead of the guilt I’m expecting, I feel pure relief. Maybe even a smidgeon of pride.

Phoenix was right: there’s a savage beauty in killing men who deserve to die.

“Nice shot,” Konstantin remarks.

“I needed three bullets.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

I glance down at the man as the last of the blood trickles out of the hole in his throat. “Yeah,” I say grimly. “I guess so.”

We leave them behind and delve deeper. Down hallways, down a staircase, and then we burst into the circular space that precedes Phoenix’s cell. I catch a glimpse of his silhouette strung from the ceiling before we’re besieged by another half a dozen enemy troops.

Konstantin jumps in front of me and starts shooting. His aim really is brilliant. He moves fast and confidently. But even I can see that he’s severely outnumbered. His reflexes can only get him so far.

I start shooting, too, but all of my first few bullets miss the mark by miles. They also alert the men to my presence.

Obviously, I’m the easier target, so two of them turn to me.

In a blind panic, I shoot off one round after the other. I’m not particularly skilled, nor is my aim very accurate. But if you shoot off enough bullets, one of them is bound to meet its mark.

Sure enough, the closer soldier drops to the floor.

He’s not dead, but I have a feeling he’s on his way there. His friend, on the other hand, is more determined than ever to get to me before I can squeeze off another round.

He bellows and charges forward like a buffalo. I back up instinctively and hit the wall behind me. The unexpected contact jars the gun from my hand. It goes clattering to the ground. I start fumbling for my knife. I don’t have much time. I can’t get it out of the holster, though, and my hands are shaking and he’s almost on me and—

BANG.

A shot rings out. I turn and see Konstantin standing a few yards away, with his smoking gun aimed at the man who was just about to wring the life from my throat.

He saved me.

But at the expense of letting his own guard down.

He knows it, too. Konstantin looks at me with solemn eyes that contain not the tiniest morsel of fear. Just bravery. Just loyalty. He says, “Madam…”

And then the man I shot but didn’t kill raises his arm limply from the ground and fires.

I have only enough time to scream.

Konstantin drops to the ground, blood flowing out of the nauseating crater in his temple.

“No!” I cry. “No…”

I don’t have time to feel anything. The threat isn’t gone yet.

I drop to the ground, pick up my fallen weapon, point it at Konstantin’s murderer, and fire. I fire and fire and fire until theclickof the mechanism tells me the chamber is empty.

He’s dead. But even then, he’s not dead enough. He’ll never be dead enough. Not if I had a million bullets.

I drop the useless gun and stare down at Konstantin’s body. Is it even possible that a person can be so full of life one second, and then gone the next?

Of course it can. Look at Charity. Apparently, death in this world takes the brightest flames first.

Those are the stakes. Those are the rules. Those are the consequences of the games the Bratva plays.

No one else has come to attend to the commotion down here. I can hear the vague thumps of the war raging at the main entrance, though. I don’t know how long I have left to complete my job. I have to move.

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