Page 55 of Filthy Bratva

Thanks, mom.

But it wasn’t really her fault. My own anger and lack of self-control caused this, and now I reap what I’ve sown. It could just be Maxim coming early, but I wouldn’t bet on it. That sounded like multiple people, and if it’s the Triple Six Angels, I’ve been told to shoot first and ask questions later.

I grab the shotgun from the corner of the office, checking that it’s loaded. It is, but there’s no way for me to know that it’s going to work until I actually pull the trigger. I’ve yet to shoot it, even though I’ve been meaning to give it a test run.

God, how could I have been this shortsighted. I knew this could happen, but I just didn’t believe that it would. I’m just a normal girl caught up in a business that’s way over my head. I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t my life.

There’s another knock on the door, even harder this time. I hear a man’s voice outside, shouting something about being let in.

Yeah, not a fucking chance. I carry the shotgun down the hallway, putting my finger on the trigger and considering pulling it just to scare them off. Nobody has to die over this.

But what if it’s the police? What if they’ve come to question me about my involvement with Savva? Surely, setting off a shotgun, even if it’s not aimed at them, is only going to get me killed. I run the risk of putting myself into a needlessly dangerous situation by doing anything but standing here in silence.

Maybe they’ll go away.

That hope evaporates like spit in the sun when glass shatters. They’re breaking in!

“Don’t come in here!” I warn, trying to make my voice sound deeper than it really is. Maybe they’ll think I’m a man. Would that even help?

There’s a moment of silence before I hear a gruff voice call out to me. “Come out here. We just want to talk to Savva.”

Any hope that I once had that this wasn’t the Triple Six Angels coming to collect is gone, and in its place, a thick ball of dread clogs my throat. I feel like I’m choking on it, unable to breathe as anxiety turns my waking world into a nightmare.

I open my mouth, but I can’t say a word.

I back down the hallway, keeping the shotgun pointed at the door in case someone comes around it. I’m not even sure if I can pull the trigger, but I need to make them believe that I will.

“Come on out, or we’re coming in,” the voice shouts. I assume it’s Stone speaking. He’s the leader of the gang, and the one who has such a severe conflict with Savva.

I remain silent, backing down until I’m at the doorway to the office. It’s then that more glass breaks, and I hear them coming in.

God, please help me. I’m so fucked.

I clench the shotgun like it’s going to take charge and save me, but I know that only I can do that now. I have to commit to using it. I have to kill someone.

I consider running, jumping out the office window and sprinting down the road until my legs give out from underneath me and I collapse. I doubt I would make it very far, though. There’s nothing out here but the occasional plant and a snake or two. I’d be spotted no matter how far from the bar I was, and Stone would ride up to me on his motorcycle and grab me.

So, there’s no escape. This is my final standoff, and it’s not looking good for me.

Now, my mother looks like she was right all along. If Angus’s bar is what gets me killed, she’ll have been proven right beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But I don’t think she would gloat at my funeral.

Imagining her in tears is enough to pull me out of my stupor and close the door to the office, shouting through it the most severe warning I can think of. “If come any further I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The deep, throaty sound of laughter makes my stomach sink so far that I nearly shit it out onto the floor. I’m not ready for this. The only way I can prove that I’m actually a threat to them is if I pull the trigger right now.

But just as I begin to squeeze my finger on the cold, metallic hook, glass shatters from behind me, and a hand covers my mouth. I drop the shotgun, throwing both elbows back into my attacker.

Too little, too late.

The door explodes open, men in jean jackets and leather pants streaming in like a parade of angry drunkards on a Friday night. This time, however, they’re not here for the beer.

They’ve come for me.

“Get off me!” I scream so loud that my voice cracks.

“Shut the fuck up, you skanky little bitch,” Stone, the obvious leader of the group, snarls, grabbing me by the hair and pulling me toward him.

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