Page 121 of Cruel Romeo

Ivan and Mikhael are already seated at the center table. Both glance up as I walk in, Lev trailing just behind me.

The silence feels too heavy. Ominous. My boots echo against the tile as I approach. I take in the details—always scanning, always measuring. The clink of glass from the bar. The shuffle of kitchen staff hidden in the back. Every sound catalogued.

Mikhael gives his usual crooked smirk as he leans back in his chair like he owns the place. “About damn time,” he announces. “Thought maybe you’d gotten lost on the way in.”

I narrow my eyes. “Careful, cousin. I’m not in the mood.”

Ivan sighs. “Enough. We’re here to talk business, not trade insults.”

Mikhael chuckles under his breath but lets it drop, though the gleam in his eye tells me he’s not quite done. Lev stays silent beside me.

I drop into one of the empty chairs. Then the door at the far end opens, and Boris Sidorov shuffles in.

I remember him as a stout man, his cheeks red from vodka, his belly straining against his suit buttons. But the man who walks in now barely resembles that. He’s shrunk into himself, skin pale and stretched over bones that jut sharp beneath his collar. His face looks hollow, cheeks gaunt, eyes dulled like husks. Stress has eaten him alive. He looks more skeleton than man, like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

This is what fear does. This is what losing control looks like.

This is what I can’t let happen to me.

Boris steps aside as another man enters behind him. Someone I don’t recognize.

Then a glint of steel catches my eye.

A gun.My gut tightens.He’s got a gun.

He’s going to kill Sidorov.

I feel the jolt of adrenaline surge through me, muscles coiled and ready. But before I can try to salvage my worthless ally’s life, the stranger shoves Boris out of the way and raises the weapon.

Towards me.

49

PETYR

Glass explodes around me as the first bullets tear through.

Light fixtures explode. The dishes on the table shatter. Jagged shards rain down on us all, drawing blood whenever they find bare skin.

The plaster wall behind us splinters and coughs dust into the air. My ears ring with the crack of gunfire. The world narrows to flashes of light and the acrid bite of gunpowder.

Instinct takes over. I draw my weapon in one smooth motion. With my free hand, I grab Lev by the collar and drag him down with me. He hits the floor hard with a grunt, but I don’t give him a chance to protest. Better bruised than dead.

My eyes cut through the chaos and lock onto the shooter.

Time slows. Adrenaline sharpens everything: the way his arm jerks with the recoil, the sweat beading at his temple.

His jaw twitches as he bears down on us. He’s too close. Reckless.

I squeeze the trigger, just once. The bullet punches into his stomach. He folds over with a sharp wail.

I fire again. The second shot slams into his head. It snaps him back, and he crumples like a rag doll to the polished floor. Blood blooms dark beneath him.

For a heartbeat, the restaurant is silent except for the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my pulse.

Then life resumes.

Ivan pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. He brushes glass splinters from his suit with steady, deliberate motions.