Page 38 of The Bratva Sinner

I walk over to him, crouching so we’re eye level. “Tell Arlind he started this. He killed one of my women. This is me being polite.”

I stand and nod to Sampson. "Make sure they can still talk."

Sampson smiles. It’s not a nice smile.

I watch Sampson drag one of the men to his feet. The Albanian is shaking, his eyes darting between us like a cornered animal.

“Run,” I tell him.

He stares at me, confused.

“Run,” I say again. “Tell Arlind what happened here. Tell him this is just the beginning.”

The man doesn’t need to be told a third time. He bolts for the door, stumbling over the bodies of his friends. Sampson fires a shot that kicks up dirt near his feet, just to give him extra motivation.

My men are moving toward the exits. I can see them backing out, weapons still trained on the remaining Albanians kneeling on the floor.

I reach into my jacket and pull out the two grenades.

“Time to go,” Damien says from behind me. “Maksim. Now.”

I pull the first pin. The metallic sound is satisfying. I toss it underhand toward the tables stacked with product. It bounces twice, then rolls under a chair.

The Albanians on the floor start screaming and scramble to their feet.

I pull the second pin and toss that grenade toward the back of the house, where more crates are stacked.

Then, I turn and walk.

Damien is waving frantically outside. “Move your ass!”

I’m ten feet from the door when the first grenade goes off. The explosion is massive, and the shockwave hits me in the back like a physical punch. I feel something hot slice across my left shoulder blade, then my calf.

I keep walking.

The second grenade detonates before I’m clear. Windows blow out. My ears are ringing, but I’m still standing.

Sampson grabs my arm and pulls me toward the vehicles. “Get in!”

I slide into the SUV, and Sampson peels out. The house is fully engulfed behind us. Flames shoot fifty feet into the air. Black smoke billows.

“Holy shit,” someone says from the back seat.

I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. My shoulder burns. I reach back, and my hand comes away red.

“You’re hit,” Damien says.

“I’m fine.”

I’m still breathing and walking. It’s more than I deserve. The women who work for me do so because I promise protection. I tell them they’re safe. I failed them. Mara is dead because I couldn’t control myself. Because I wanted something that didn’t belong to me.

“It’s time,” Damien says from the back seat.

“No.”

“You just started a war.”

“I started the war last week.”