Lord of Cruelty (The Bratva Lords #3)

Prologue

Alexsey…

Firefights are a symphony of madness.

The staccato pulse of the submachine guns, the harmonic booms of a grenade. And like Nero who fiddled as Rome burned, I create my own melody of ruin, shooting my way through a gauntlet of the suicidal fucks who thought they could kill my family.

Motherfucking Luan Krasniqi.

He's spraying the back door of the restaurant with bullets, flecks of spit flying from his mouth as he screams. The door splinters, chunks of wood flying loose from the sagging hinges.

My family is there, pinned down by the gunfire.

My father is shot, possibly bleeding out on the floor of the kitchen while this bastard tears the building apart with bullets.

Krasniqi's back is to me, he's ready to charge through the smoking ruin of the entryway. The terrace separating us is less than ten feet. My left arm is up, this is an easy shot, right through the back of his-

A searing flame of agony hits my hand, blood sprays as my gun goes flying.

Looks like I didn't shoot everyone.

Spinning and pulling my knife from its sheath, I send it flying back toward the trees, at the staggering Albanian fuck who got in a lucky shot.

Krasniqi never heard it over the roar of his operatic spewing of bullets.

My gun is gone; my knife is buried in the throat of the Albanian corpse behind me and I have exactly dick for a weapon.

I'm charging ahead anyway, sweeping a ceramic planter off a ledge.

My left hand is streaming blood from the bullet and I grit my teeth, balancing it with my right.

I'm so close now and I raise the planter, ready to crush Kransniqi's skull.

With the luck given to the stupid and the worthless, he turns just in time, his finger still on the trigger, AK-47 pumping out bullets, a streak of fire, tearing a path up my arm, but I still raise the planter, bringing it down on his head.

The look of surprise on his face is almost comical as the ceramic shatters against his skull, opening a gash on his forehead, his blood spraying my face.

One of the shards is still in my hand, and I bring it down to slice across his throat but it drops from my fingers.

My hand is slack, a stream of crimson pouring off it and splashing on the flagstone terrace.

My vision blurs into splashes of searing white and violent crimson.

"Alexsey!" A hoarse shout as arms go around me. My brother's.

I should say something but I'm too fascinated by the river of blood streaming from my arm.

"Ava! His arm-"

"Get me-"

"Alexsey, can you hear me?"

What the hell. It's just a flesh wound. I get those all the time. I tilt sideways, useless legs no longer holding me. "Dmitri…" My voice is hoarse. "Father?"

"He's stable." Dmitri's impenetrable calm is gone, distress creasing his face. "Hold on now. I've got you."

His face is fading away; features I recognize as well as my own.

"I've got you, Alexsey."