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Samuil
The ropes bite into my wrists, every twist and tug aggravating the raw skin beneath. But the pain is nothing. Not when she’s in danger. Ana, fierce and unyielding, is now facing her deadliest match yet. And it’s not so much against the Romanian brute as it is against treachery.
Through the heavy wooden door, I pick up fragments of their conversation.
“You should’ve seen her face after she took a swig of that drink,” one of them says, laughing.
“The Tsarina is in for a royal surprise,” another snickers.
The rage inside me grows, hot and wild. It feels as though I could set the world aflame with the force of my anger. My muscles tense, straining against the bonds.
One might think that with my size and reputation, I’d have escaped by now. But these ropes are thick, the knots expertly tied. They knew who they were dealing with, but they underestimated the strength that love can give a man.
The conversation outside becomes louder, more animated, as if they're rejoicing in their cleverness. Every word, every chuckle, fills me with a renewed energy. It's not just about the fightanymore, or about the family honor—it's about Ana. Her safety, her life.
I test the chair I’m tied to, rocking it back and forth. It’s sturdy but not unbreakable. Using all my strength, I suddenly push off the ground with my legs, sending the chair crashing backward. The impact jars me, but the sound of splintering wood tells me my gamble paid off. The chair breaks, freeing my legs, though my hands remain tied.
The voices outside the door halt. They’ve heard. They're coming.
There's no time. I use the shards of the broken chair to saw at the ropes, the sharp edges cutting through my bonds. The door handle turns.
With a final jerk, my hands are free. Ready.
The door swings open, and two surprised Romanians meet the full force of Samuil “Fists” Nicolaevich. Before they can draw their weapons, I’m on them—quick, brutal, and unyielding.
Their bodies slump to the floor, unconscious. Wasting no time, I retrieve the key from one of their pockets, unlocking the door and stepping out into a dimly lit corridor.
There’s no going back now. I need to find Ana. The stakes have never been higher, and I have a promise to keep; to protect her, always.
My breath steadies as I carefully maneuver through the building, every shadow and sound a potential danger. I've learned from my years in the Bratva that evasion is as much a weapon as the strongest fist or the sharpest knife. But the universe, it seems, has other plans for tonight.
The guard rounding the corner looks as surprised as I do. There's a split-second pause and then we're on each other.
He swings first, his punch wide and wild. Years of training have honed my reflexes, and I easily sidestep, retaliating with a left hook to his jaw. He stumbles back, recoveringquickly and charges at me, fists flying. We grapple, using the narrow confines of the corridor to our advantage, searching for weaknesses.
He's strong and knows his way around a brawl but I have something more potent: desperation. Each punch, each block, is filled with a burning need to get to Ana.
Just when I feel I have the upper hand, he pulls a gun from his pocket. Time seems to slow. He trains the black, deadly muzzle on me, a small smirk on the guard’s face betraying his confidence.
But he underestimates me.
In a flash, I close the distance between us, catching his wrist in a vice grip. Using his momentum against him, I wrench the gun away, twisting it around with practiced precision. A loud boom sounds out, deafening in the tight space. The guard screams, clutching at his leg as blood seeps through his fingers.
Tearing a strip from his shirt, I quickly bind his wrists, ensuring he won't be a threat. Next, I stuff a cloth into his mouth to silence any cries for help.
My victory, however, is short-lived. Shouts echo in the distance, the rhythm of heavy boots growing louder.
Time to move. With the gun in hand and adrenaline pumping through my veins, I race down the corridor. I know I need to be smart about this. Head-on confrontations could get me killed, and that won’t help Ana.
It's not just about brute strength now. It's about wits, timing, and a whole lot of luck. I pray that luck is on my side tonight.
The corridors seem endless, each turn leading to another stretch of dimly lit hallway. But that's the least of my concerns as the guards rush in, heavily armed. There's a heartbeat of hesitation, and then chaos erupts.
I dodge the first barrage of bullets, my back pressed flat against a corridor wall. Taking a moment to steady myself, Ipeek out, fire three quick shots, and manage to incapacitate two guards. One falls clutching his thigh, the other crumpling as a bullet hits his shoulder. The smell of gunpowder fills the air, mingling with the tang of fear and anticipation.
Using their momentary confusion to my advantage, I sprint to the end of the corridor, slipping into an adjoining room. Inside, I find a discarded lead pipe. Not the best weapon, but it'll do. As two guards rush in after me, I swing the pipe, catching the first across the face and the second in the gut. He doubles over, giving me the chance to deliver an uppercut that sends him crashing into the wall.
Darting out the door and to the side, I dodge another round of bullets, using the walls as a shield. Every shot I take is calculated, aimed to immobilize. The sound of my pistol mingles with their automatic gunfire, creating a deadly symphony in the tight confines.
