"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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I never saw it coming.
How could I? How could anyone anticipate this?
One moment, my hands—my very essence—are wrapped around Viktor's throat, my rage seething through every fiber of my being, crushing him against the wall as if the world itself had conspired to push him there. And then, in the blink of an eye, the air shatters like glass—sharp, merciless, deafening. A gunshot. The kind of sound that rips through the chest, freezes time, and engraves itself into your very soul.
I feel it before I understand it. The cold, searing kiss of metal as it sinks deep into my shoulder, burrowing into my flesh, sending shockwaves of pain tearing through my body. The intensity is a violence of its own—a fire that surges through my back, clamping my muscles in an unholy embrace.
I stumble—just slightly, enough to feel my body betray me. The world sways around me, the blood in my veins suddenly turning to ice as I fight to stay upright. My hand instinctively presses to the wound, but it does little to quell the pain—no, it only serves to remind me of the burning agony that won't cease. I grit my teeth, stifling the ferocity that gnaws at the edges of my control, my breath shallow and ragged, my chest tight. I am a man in the throes of war with his own body, and damn it, I refuse to fall.
I look at her.
She stands there, a tempest incarnate, the storm of defiance crackling around her like a living thing. Her chest heaves with the same fury that vibrates in her eyes—wild, bloodshot, and burning with an intensity that claws its way into my soul. That gun—her gun—remains in her hand, trembling slightly as if it, too, can't quite believe the weight of what's been done. The weapon finds its resting place in her thigh holster, hidden now beneath the sharp elegance of her attire, a cruel reminder of how treachery comes cloaked in beauty.
My gaze hardens, a storm behind my eyes that refuses to break. How could she? The betrayal cuts deeper than the wound she's just inflicted.
I don't even notice Raphael at first—his presence, steady and unfaltering, is a stark contrast to the chaos that consumes me. He steps toward me, calm and precise, his large hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who has long danced with death. His touch is careful, calculated, as he inspects my wound, and yet the urgency in his movements speaks louder than words ever could. He doesn't need to say it; I feel it in the way he holds my shoulder—an anchor in the midst of the storm.
