The Russian’s Revenge Bride (Kamarov Bratva #3)

Prologue – Maxim

Six Years Ago

The warehouse on Prague’s outskirts looked like death warmed over, all crumbling concrete and rusted metal that screamed abandonment.

Midnight had settled over the city like a shroud, bringing with it the kind of cold that bit through leather and found bone.

The air tasted of coming snow and something else.

Something metallic that made my gut clench.

Blood. I could smell it before I could see it.

“You sure this Croatian bastard knows what he’s doing?

” Rafael’s voice cut through the silence, low and careful.

He stood next to me, his massive frame blocking most of the light from the single bulb swaying overhead.

His breath came out in white puffs that dissipated into nothing, just like most men who crossed us.

I adjusted my grip on the Makarov tucked beneath my coat, the weight familiar and comforting. “Been using him for three years. Small, efficient, clean. Arms in, cash out, no fucking noise. That’s the promise.”

But promises were like whores in this business. Pretty to look at, but they’d fuck you over the moment you stopped paying attention.

The warehouse stretched out before us like a concrete tomb, filled with shadows that danced between broken machinery and shipping containers. Seventeen windows, most boarded up. Four exits, three probably welded shut. If someone wanted to set a trap, this shithole was perfect for it.

My photographic memory catalogued every detail automatically. Every blind spot, every angle, every place a man could hide and put a bullet in your brain. It was a habit that had kept me breathing when better men were feeding worms.

“Where the fuck is he?” Rafael checked his Rolex, gold catching the weak light. “Said midnight sharp.”

“Patience.” The word tasted like ash. We’d been standing here nine minutes too long, and in this business, nine minutes was enough time to die twice over.

The first crate sat between us and the shadows, packed with enough firepower to level half of Prague. Kalashnikovs, Berettas, ammunition that would make angels weep. The kind of merchandise that kept Bratva overseas operations running smooth as aged vodka and twice as deadly.

That’s when I heard it. Boot on concrete. Wrong direction. Too many feet.

“Rafael.”

He heard the warning in my voice, hand already moving toward his weapon. We’d bled together enough times that words weren’t necessary. He knew death was coming before the first muzzle flash lit up the darkness.

The ambush hit like a fucking avalanche.

Gunfire erupted from three positions at once, muzzle flashes strobing through the warehouse like deadly lightning. The sound was deafening, bullets chewing through metal and concrete like they were made of tissue paper. Sparks showered down like hellish rain.

“Fucking setup!” I roared, diving behind a shipping container as rounds sparked inches from my head. My Makarov was in my hand before I hit the ground, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.

Rafael rolled left, surprisingly graceful for a man his size, finding cover behind a stack of wooden pallets. The wood exploded around him, splinters flying like shrapnel. “How many?” he shouted over the chaos.

I counted muzzle flashes, calculated angles, processed information faster than most men could blink. “Eight, maybe ten. Positioned like they knew exactly where we’d be standing.”

And they fucking did know. Someone had sold us out. Someone close enough to know the details, the timing, the exact location. Someone who was going to scream for mercy before I put them in the ground.

A bullet punched through the container wall near my ear, close enough that I felt the heat kiss my skin. I returned fire, two quick shots toward the nearest flash. A grunt echoed through the warehouse, then silence from that position.

One down.

“Maxim!” Rafael’s voice was strained, different. I glanced over to see dark blood spreading across his white shirt like spilled wine. Gut shot. Bad fucking news.

The rage that hit me was pure and clean, burning through my veins like liquid fire. These bastards had walked into our house, our deal, our business, and put a bullet in my brother. That was a mistake that would cost them everything.

But the gunfire kept coming, relentless and coordinated. Professional shooters, not street trash. They knew their business, which made this infinitely worse. I pressed myself against the container, feeling bullets punch through the steel like it was cardboard.

“Rafael, how bad?” I called out.

“Bad enough.” His voice was steady, but I could hear the pain underneath. Tough bastard. Most men would be screaming by now.

More muzzle flashes from the northeast corner. I had two choices: stay pinned down and die slow or move and maybe die fast. In this business, fast was always better.

I broke from cover, using the maze of containers and machinery to get behind them. The warehouse became my hunting ground, every shadow and blind spot a weapon to be used. My boots were silent on the concrete, years of practice making me a ghost.

Two shooters near the far wall, focused on Rafael’s position. They never saw me coming. I put three bullets in the first one’s head before he could turn around. The second managed to get his weapon halfway up before my fourth shot opened his throat like a second mouth.

Blood painted the concrete in abstract patterns, warm and thick in the cold air. The metallic smell was overwhelming now, mixing with cordite and the stench of fear. This was the perfume of my world, the scent of necessary violence.

“You Croatian piece of shit!” I called out into the darkness. “Show your fucking face!”

More gunfire, but wilder now. Panicked. They were realizing their numbers advantage was disappearing fast. Fear made people stupid, and stupid people made fatal mistakes.

I reloaded, the motion automatic and smooth. The warehouse had gone quieter, only three or four positions still firing. Time to end this dance.

A shadow moved near one of the exits. I tracked it with my weapon, patient as death itself. The figure stepped into the weak light, and I saw betrayal wearing a familiar face.

Young, scared, sweating despite the cold. Definitely not Croatian.

Russian.

The gunfight continued around us, bullets flying and men dying, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that face. Someone I’d seen before. Someone who’d sat at our table, drunk our vodka, called us brothers.

Another burst of gunfire snapped my attention back to the immediate problem. A shooter had flanked around to Rafael’s left, weapon trained on his wounded form. I put two bullets in the bastard’s chest before he could pull the trigger.

The warehouse fell silent except for the drip of blood and Rafael’s labored breathing.

I counted bodies as I moved through the killing ground. Seven dead, all of them cooling fast in the Prague winter. Blood pooled on the concrete like spilled paint, dark and thick. The math worked out. No survivors to carry tales back to whoever had sent them.

Rafael was still propped against the pallets when I reached him, his face pale but his eyes sharp as broken glass. The blood had soaked through his shirt and coat, a spreading stain that told me everything I needed to know about how fucked up this situation was.

“How’s it look?” he asked, voice steady despite the hole in his gut.

“You’ll live. Too fucking stubborn to die from something this small.” I pressed my hand against the wound, feeling warm blood seep between my fingers. “But we need to move. Now.”

“The merchandise?”

“Fuck the merchandise. This whole operation is burned to ash.”

I helped him to his feet, his considerable weight heavy against my shoulder. We moved slowly through the maze of bodies and broken dreams, leaving behind enough firepower to arm a small war. Sometimes you had to cut your losses and run. Tonight was definitely one of those times.

The BMW was waiting outside, black paint gleaming under the streetlights. I loaded Rafael into the passenger seat, his breathing shallow but steady. Tough bastard was already calculating our next moves despite bleeding all over my upholstery.

“Setup,” Rafael said as I started the engine. It wasn’t a question.

“Complete fucking setup. They knew our timing, our numbers, our exact positions. Led us here like lambs to slaughter.”

“Except we didn’t die.”

“No. We fucking didn’t.”

The drive to the safe house was tense, Prague blurring past the windows in streaks of old architecture and communist concrete. We’d added seven more bodies to the city’s collection tonight, seven more reasons why this business was not for the weak or the foolish.

The safe house was a nondescript apartment in the old quarter, three flights up and invisible to casual observation. Perfect for our needs. I half-carried Rafael upstairs, his blood leaving a trail that would need cleaning later.

Inside, I stripped off his shirt and examined the damage properly. The bullet had gone clean through, missing anything immediately vital by pure luck. In this business, luck was often the difference between breathing and bleeding out on a warehouse floor.

“Hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Fuck no. Too many questions, too much paperwork.” He gritted his teeth as I probed the wound. “Just clean it and stitch it up. We’ve both had worse.”

That was true. The scar beneath my right eye was proof enough of that. A souvenir from the last time someone tried to fuck us over. The blade had missed my eye by millimeters, close enough that I could see my own death reflected in the steel.

I worked on Rafael’s wound with steady hands, cleaning and stitching like I’d done a hundred times before. In the Bratva, you learned to be your own medic, or you died waiting for help that never came.

“This changes everything,” Rafael said once I’d finished patching him up. “Someone knew about tonight. Someone with access to details.”