DAMIAN
The drive is short, too short for me to settle the burning fury in my chest. Every second that ticks by is slow torture. Fingers clench and unclench, itching to swipe the steering from the driver and rage all the way there.
However, I need to bid my time. It makes the punishment worth it.
After what seems like an eternity, we arrive at the place. It is a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of the city—a Bratva safehouse masquerading as an abandoned shipping company.
The kind of place where secrets are buried under layers of sweat, blood and fear.
I step into the building. The air inside is thick with rust and the musky stench of sweat. That's when I hear sounds–more like grunts and muffled cries, with the dull thud of fists against flesh–which leads me to where the action is
