Page 43 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Kravin manages to pull his trigger first.

I’m already moving, pulling Serena down and behind me as the muzzle flash illuminates the warehouse. The bullet passes close enough that I feel the heat of it, missing by inches.

I return fire immediately, but Kravin rolls behind the crates, using them for cover while my shot sparks off metal instead of flesh.

“Viktor!” I bark into my comm. “Southern section, Kravin’s still active.”

Another shot answers, forcing me to duck as the bullet ricochets off the concrete pillar beside us. Serena makes a small, choked sound behind me, and I feel her hand grip the back of my tactical vest.

“Stay down,” I order, keeping myself between her and Kravin’s position.

More gunfire erupts from the warehouse entrance; Viktor and the team engaging with guards I thought were already neutralized. Someone miscounted, or Kravin had backup waiting in positions we didn’t clear.

Kravin uses the distraction to move, darting from behind the crates toward a service corridor I didn’t notice during the initial breach. I track his movement and fire twice, but he’s fast despite the wound that should have slowed him down.

One bullet catches him in the leg, spinning him partially around. He goes down hard, weapon skittering across concrete.

I advance carefully, keeping Serena behind me while maintaining aim on Kravin’s position. Blood pools beneath him from the leg wound and the earlier chest shot—he’s dying, just not fast enough.

“It’s over,” I tell him, closing the distance. “Your men are dead. Your organization is finished. You die here.”

Kravin laughs—wet, gurgling, blood bubbling at his lips. “You think… killing me… changes anything?” He coughs, more blood. “The Kravin Syndicate… doesn’t die with one man.”

“No, but it learns what happens when it crosses me.”

I raise my weapon for the finishing shot.

That’s when I see his hand moving—not toward the gun that fell several feet away, but to his belt where a backup piece is holstered.

Training screams at me to fire immediately, to eliminate the threat before he can draw.

Kravin isn’t aiming at me.

His gun swings toward Serena, still crouched behind the pillar where I positioned her.

Everything slows with crystalline clarity. The angle of his weapon. The distance between us. The fraction of a second I have to make a choice.

I step directly into his line of fire.

The impact hits like a sledgehammer to my left shoulder, spinning me partially sideways. White-hot pain explodes through muscle and bone as the bullet tears through tissue, the force of it nearly dropping me to my knees.

I stay upright, raising my weapon with my right hand despite the way my left arm immediately goes numb and useless.

I fire three times.

The first shot hits Kravin’s gun hand. The second and third catch him in the shoulder. The warehouse goes quiet except for the ringing in my ears and Serena’s sharp, panicked breathing behind me.

“Pavel!” Her voice sounds distant, muffled. “Pavel, you’re bleeding.”

I turn toward her, trying to assess if she’s injured, but the movement sends fresh agony through my shoulder. Blood is pouring down my arm now, soaking through tactical gear at an alarming rate, warm and sticky against my skin.

The wound pulses with each heartbeat, and I can feel the exit wound bleeding against my back.

Serena scrambles toward me, her face white with shock, her injured hand forgotten as she reaches for my shoulder. “You got shot. Why would you do that?”

“Are you hurt?” I force the words out, scanning her for new injuries. “Did any of the shots hit you?”

“No. Christ that’s a lot of blood.”