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As I make my way through the maze, the cold grip of dread takes hold when I hear the growl of engines outside. My heart sinks at the sight through a grimy window: more Romanians than I care to count are spilling out of a van. All geared up, all hungry for a fight.
I duck back, mentally preparing myself. If this is how it ends, then I'm going out in a blaze of glory—for Ana, for the Bratva, for myself. I cock the pistol, getting prepared for what feels like a last stand.
But before the newcomers can storm in, a barrage of gunfire pierces the air. Shouts, screams, more gunfire, then an abrupt, eerie quiet. The sound of boots cautiously approaching, crunching on broken glass resonates from downstairs.
Gripping my pistol tightly, I inch forward, ready for whatever comes next. Andrei stands tall amidst a sea of incapacitated Romanians, his rifle smoking. Beside him, Roman—the Closer himself—is reloading, a smirk on his face.
“Ah, Sammy,” Roman calls out, glancing at the mess around him. “Looks like you started the party without us. Not very brotherly of you.”
My relief is tangible, my grin matching Roman’s. “You always were fashionably late.”
In a world filled with violence and chaos, it's these moments of camaraderie that remind me of who I am, of what I'm fighting for. With my brothers by my side, we're unstoppable.
The aftermath of the battle is a bloody scene. Spent cartridges litter the floor and traces of gunpowder still hangs heavily in the air. But my focus is on the groaning man on the ground below me. Every muscle in my body is taut with tension as I pull him up by his collar, my fingers digging into his flesh, forcing him onto a nearby chair.
He tries to struggle, his eyes darting fearfully, but I give him a sharp punch, ensuring he stays put. I am consumed by raw fury. Every second counts, and I need answers.
Roman steps forward, his expression stern, “I’ll translate.” I nod, letting Roman take the lead for a moment. They exchange rapid sentences, Roman’s voice growing colder and more demanding with each word.
“He said they used rat poison,” Roman finally says. I feel a chill settle in my bones. The cruelty, the malicious intent behind the act, is staggering. But there’s no time to dwell on that now.
“How does it work?” I ask, my voice sharp with urgency.
“It's a slow killer,” Roman translates after another brief exchange. “Her increased heart rate during the fight will spread the poison faster. The symptoms are debilitating, and if it isn't counteracted soon, the outcome is lethal.”
“Is there an antidote?” I shout at the Romanian, my patience waning thin.
He hesitates, clearly weighing his options. I tighten my grip on him, ready to shake the answers out if necessary. Finally, herelents and nods, explaining that there is an antidote, but it isn’t something commonly found.
Andrei, who’s been silent up to this point, speaks up, “Get Nat on the phone. Now.”
One of our men quickly pulls out his phone, dialing Nat’s number. The wait is agonizing, every second stretching out interminably. When she finally answers, she confirms the antidote’s existence. It's a specific blend of chemicals that counteract the poison. She stresses that time is critical.
“We need to stop that fight,” Roman declares with finality, looking at me.
I nod, anger and dread hardening my features. “Andrei, see if we can secure that antidote ASAP. Roman, we’re going to that arena. We need to get to Ana.”
The room is a whirl of activity as everyone jumps into action. As I exit the building, I can only think of the ticking clock that is now Ana’s life. I won’t lose her, not like this.
Chapter 23
Anastasia
The Wolf lunges at me, a hulking mass of power, and I narrowly manage to sidestep his swing. But as I move, my limbs feel sluggish, the signals from my brain taking their sweet time to get there.
It’s as if I’m wading through waist-deep water. The overwhelming sensation of nausea, coupled with sharp abdominal pain, is clouding my usually sharp instincts.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth; I must've bitten my lip. I force myself to move, to dodge and weave, relying on the reflexes honed over countless hours of training. But it's like fighting underwater, every action delayed, every motion like pushing through thick mud.
I hear the shouts and roars of the crowd, an indistinct maelstrom of noise, but it feels distant, muffled. My focus is solely on The Wolf. He grins maliciously, the gleam in his eyes telling me he's aware of my weakness, reveling in the advantage. It’s that predatory grin, filled with overconfidence, that pushes me. With every fiber of my being protesting, I retaliate, landing a punch that momentarily staggers him.
But just when I think I've gained a fraction of the upper hand, my vision blurs, and my legs buckle. Only sheer will keeps meupright. I hear my brother screaming something, but it's like trying to understand someone through a thick pane of glass.
My breaths come fast and ragged, the edges of my vision darkening. I can feel The Wolf closing in, can practically feel his breath on my neck. But somehow, with an adrenaline-fueled surge, I manage to block his next few punches, even countering with a few desperate jabs of my own. The bell rings, signaling the end of the round, and I've never been so grateful for a sound in my life.
Stumbling back to my corner, I collapse onto the stool. Sweat drips down my face, mingling with the tears that I can't hold back. My chest constricts, breathing becoming more and more laborious. A water bottle is thrust into my hand, and I take a long gulp, hoping against hope that it will wash away the poison coursing through my veins. It doesn’t.
The Wolf smirks from across the ring, his cockiness evident. He knows he's got the advantage, however unjustly. I can see it in the way he leans back, relaxed, as if he's simply waiting to be declared the winner. The Wolf and his mob ties guaranteed this wouldn't be a fair fight from the start.
