Page 99 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Stay back! I’ll kill you!”

I walk toward him, the barrel of my Sig leveled at his chest. The smoke clears, revealing him standing there, hand shaking, chest heaving.

“You don’t have the balls, Gromov,” he spits, though his voice trembles. “You’re a suit. A bureaucrat. You don’t have the stomach for the blood.”

“I’m swimming in it, Lorenzo.”

I pull the trigger.

The shot hits him in the shoulder. He spins, crashing into the desk and knocking over a lamp. The pistol skids across the floor, out of reach. He howls, clutching his arm, blood blooming on his white shirt.

I close the distance, kicking him onto his back. I place a boot on his wounded shoulder, grinding down. He screams, a high-pitched, animalistic sound.

“Please!” he gasps. “Stop!”

“You came into my home,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “You threatened my wife.”

“It was business!”

“You made it personal.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a simple brass Zippo. I flick it open. The flame dances in the darkness, reflecting in his wide, terrified eyes.

“No! Please, God, no!”

“God isn’t here.”

I pull a small canister of gasoline from my belt—standard issue for clearing nests. I douse him. The smell is sharp, overwhelming. He thrashes underneath my boot, his uninjured hand clawing at my ankle, begging.

“I’ll stop! I’ll pull back!”

I touch the flame to his coat.

The ignition is instantaneous. The fire roars up his body, a living thing, consuming the fabric and the skin beneath. He shrieks, a sound that tears at the eardrums, and rolls off the desk, batting at the flames.

It’s a gruesome sight. The smell of burning hair fills the room.

I watch him. I want him to suffer. I want him to carry the scars, the pain, for the rest of his short, miserable life.

“Pakhan!” Yuri shouts in my ear. “Police scanner is active. Two minutes out. We need to move!”

I look at Lorenzo one last time. He’s on the floor, writhing in agony, but he’s moving. He’s dragging himself toward the shattered window, driven by nothing but instinct.

He looks at me. Through the pain and the fire, his eyes lock onto mine. They’re full of hate.

I turn and run. I sprint down the metal stairs, taking them two at a time. The heat of the fire is pushing at my back, scorching my neck.

I hit the concrete floor and sprint for the side door.

“Yuri! Go!”

Yuri is already in the driver’s seat of the SUV, the engine revving. I dive into the passenger seat, and he floors it before the door is even closed.

Tires spin in the wet mud, then grab, launching us forward. We fishtail out of the alleyway and onto the main road, just as the first police cruisers crest the hill, their light bars cutting through the rain.

I look back.

The warehouse is fully involved now. Flames are shooting out of the broken windows, licking up the sides of the building. It’s a beacon of destruction in the night sky.