Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I make my way over, the music still pounding, the women still dancing like nothing is happening. That’s the thing about this place—violence is just background noise.
Riot flexes his hands, his knuckles raw. "This fucker thought he could talk shit."
The guy groans, rolling onto his side. He's not one of ours. Not one of Konstantin’s either. Which means he doesn’t belong and my brother clocked that within moments of his presence. Hence why he’s on the ground.
I crouch down, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him up to eye level. "You got two seconds to explain why you’re here before I let Riot finish what he started."
His mouth opens, but whatever excuse he was about to spit out never comes.
Because that’s when the gunshots start.
Three, fast and sharp. One straight to this man’s head only inches from my damn hand.
The club erupts into chaos.
I drop the guy, spinning toward the entrance, pulling my piece from my back, as screams pierce the air. Gainz is already moving, gun drawn, his eyes cutting through the flashing lights.
“Get the fuck down!” I roar, scanning for my brothers as we all move to alert.
One night.
I just wanted one fucking night.
A woman screams, a table flips, and bodies scatter as more shots ring out. I shove past the scrambling dancers, my mind shifting into survival mode. Riot’s already got his gun out, Mellow too. But I don’t see the shooter yet.
Looney moves fast, clearing the distance between him and the entrance in seconds. “Outside!” he shouts, voice cutting through the noise. “Shooter’s outside!”
Well, that man better pray to whatever God he believes in that anyone gets to him before Looney does. His entire being is death and destruction. Crazy isn’t even the first stage of his level of insanity.
I push forward following the brothers in front of me as we all take Looney’s back. Outside the club, the night is thick with humidity, the air clinging to my skin. The streetlights cast long shadows, and in the distance, a car’s tires screech before peeling off into the night.
"Fuck," Riot curses, gun still raised. "They’re gone."
I lower my piece, exhaling through my nose. My mind is already working, already calculating. This wasn’t random. Someone wants to send a message. Why? Who? And do they realize how much I plan to wreck them? No one messes with my family.
I glance back at the club, at my brothers stepping out, guns in hand. My jaw tightens.
So much for a quiet fucking night.
Mellow steps up beside me. "What now, Pres?"
I flick the ash from my cigar, my stomach twisting with something I haven’t felt in a while.
Anticipation.
"We find out who just declared war."
CHAPTER 2
ALAINA
The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh bread wraps around me like a warm hug as I step into my bakery, Frosted and Filled, just before dawn. It’s my favorite time of day—before the world stirs, before the morning rush, when it’s just me, the hum of the ovens, and the promise of something new. The smells still fill my nose and my heart with a promise of happiness inside each pastry.
I flick on the lights, casting a golden glow over the cozy space. The front of the bakery is exactly how I always imagined it—warm, inviting, and just a little nostalgic. Large bay windows face the sleepy street, framed by sheer lace curtains that soften the early morning light. The Frosted and Filled sign hangs proudly above the entrance, the elegant script painted onto a wooden plank my grandfather carved himself. A framed picture of him and my grandmother over the main wall is my constant reminder of why I love this place. Every inch of it is wrapped in their love, from the way he supports me to every recipe she taught me and more.
Inside, rustic wooden tables with mismatched chairs fill the small seating area, their surfaces adorned with tiny vases of fresh flowers. A long glass display case stretches across the front counter, waiting to be filled with today’s offerings. The shelves behind it are lined with rows of glass jars filled with Iriski (Russian soft caramels), Belochka (chocolate with hazelnuts) , and baskets of assorted cookies. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the promise of something sweet.
I take a deep breath and step behind the counter, tying my apron around my waist. Out of habit, I go about my routine. The kitchen in the back comes alive in moments with the hum of the industrial mixer. I move on autopilot, setting up trays, checking timers, and rolling out fresh cinnamon rolls to be baked.
This bakery—my home away from home—has been my dream since I was a little girl, watching my grandmother knead dough with practiced hands, humming a Russian lullaby under her breath.
"One day, you’ll make something sweet that people will remember," she’d always say.