Brutal vows

Chapter 11: The Golden Revolver

The air inside the cabin grew thick, choked with the acrid, sulfurous smell of gunpowder, burning plaster, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. From my position behind the stone hearth, I could see nothing but shifting shadows and the sudden, violent bursts of light from weapon muzzles. I held the silver pistol tightly with both hands, my knuckles white, my entire body shaking so violently the barrel danced in the dark.

Alekov was moving like a ghost through the wreckage of the living room. He didn't stay in one place for more than a second. He fired three more shots, each one followed by the heavy, unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floorboards. The enemy numbers were dwindling, but they were professionals. They began to use overlapping fields of fire, pinning Alekov behind the crumbling remains of the kitchen island.

"Flashbang! Shield your eyes!" a voice screamed from the foyer.

A small, cylindrical canister clattered across the hardwood floor, rolling to a stop just a few feet from the fireplace. Before I could even process what it was, the device detonated with a blinding white flash and a concussive roar that felt like a physical blow to my head.

The world went instantly white. A high-pitched, deafening ringing filled my ears, wiping out all sound. My balance failed, and I slumped against the stone wall, the silver pistol slipping from my numb fingers as my vision swam in a haze of smoke and static.

Through the blurred, vibrating fog of my vision, I saw a heavy boot kick through the shattered remains of the kitchen door.

Standing in the clearing smoke was a man wearing a tailored gray wool coat—not a regular grunt or hired muscle, but a high-ranking captain of the rival syndicate. His face was cold, scarred, and wore a smirk of absolute victory. In his right hand, he held a massive, polished golden revolver, its barrel gleaming in the green light of the surviving monitors.

He didn't look at the bodies of his men littering the floor. He stepped over them, his gaze scanning the room until it locked directly onto me, slumped helpless against the hearth.

"Well, well," the captain’s voice was a low, mocking drawl that barely registered over the ringing in my ears. "The prized Volkov princess, hiding in the dirt like a rat. Your father is going to surrender half the city to get your body back from us."

He raised the golden revolver, aiming it directly at my face. I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact, realizing with a sick horror that I was going to die in this dark cabin, inches away from the only man I had ever loved.

A sudden, fierce roar cut through the concussive silence.

Alekov burst from the smoke of the kitchen like a demon unleashed from hell. He had no ammunition left in his primary weapon; he dropped the empty pistol, tackling the captain around the waist with the force of a freight train. The two massive men crashed hard into the wooden dining table, shattering the thick timber into splinters as they rolled across the floor in a brutal, hand-to-hand struggle for survival.

The golden revolver flew from the captain's hand, clattering across the floorboards and sliding to a stop just inches from my bleeding knees.