Throne of Vengeance (Throne Duet #2) by Rina Kent

I lose my balance from the force of his push. Before I hit the ground, I make out one of the Albanians coming. “Careful!” I scream at Damien. He shoots him in the face, creating a bloody hole, and grabs me by the arm to keep me upright.

“Fuck. I’m out.” He throws his gun away. “And stay still. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m fine. Kirill, however…” I don’t get a chance to look at him when another guard rushes toward us.

“Let me take care of this sucker.” Damien steps in front of me.

“Don’t be an idiot—he has a gun.”

He winks at me over his shoulder. “Didn’t stop me before.”

“You’re not bulletproof, asshole.”

“I love your tough love, Rayenka.” He grins. “Besides, I need to stay alive for that marriage and shit.”

He goes straight for the guard, and I attempt to shoot on his behalf, but I don’t get the chance.

Two others gang up on me. I shoot the first, but before I can do the same to the other, he kicks my gun away, nearly breaking my wrist with it.

Instead of shooting me as I expect him to, he comes at me. I grab him by the arm and knee him in the crotch. My skirt tears at the bottom, but it’s a small price to pay.

He howls in pain and I use the chance to try to snatch his rifle. A black bag is shoved over my head from behind. My nails dig into the fabric, but it’s strapped so tight that no air comes in.

Worse, I’m breathing some sort of a funny smell.

I kick my leg up, but it connects with nothing. I buck against the one holding me, but two other pairs of hands join in immobilizing me.

No. I’m not going to die.

I still have a lot to do and…Kyle and I didn’t even get our proper start yet. I can’t die.

I elbow the body behind me, but his hold on the bag doesn’t loosen. I feel lightheaded and my movements slow. My harsh breathing withers away and I fall slack against meaty arms.

No.

No…

I try to kick, but my limbs don’t move.

Soon enough, darkness swallows me whole.





19





Kyle





I barge out of the car before it fully stops moving.

The scene in front of me is nothing short of a battlefield. A few men are lying on the ground, their blood leaving splashes and forming pools on the filthy asphalt. Others are hiding from the gunshots behind cars.

But there’s nothing to hide from.

More accurately, we’re late.

Fuck.

Adrian motions at his guards to check the perimeter, and they comply with sharp nods. I remain in place, feet planted solidly on the ground, as my gaze roams the cars and the people left behind, whether they’re alive or with their heads down.

Every time I see a motionless body, my heartbeat explodes in my ears until I make sure it’s not Rai.

There’s no trace of her.

None. Nada.

My hand trembles around the gun, and it’s a fucking first. After taking a life when I was ten, I’ve never had my hand tremble around a weapon. Guns, rifles, and knives aren’t only weapons; they are an extension of my hand, a method to not only stay alive but to also eradicate anyone who stands in my path.

This is the first time my weapon isn’t fulfilling its role. I failed her, and so it failed me.

“Where the fuck did they go?” Kirill’s agitated voice grabs my attention, and I sprint in his direction.

Although he and Rai hate each other, he won’t be out to kill her. Besides, as much as I loathe the fucker Damien, he would make it his mission to protect the Pakhan’s grandniece.

Adrian joins me, even though he’s intently watching the scene, probably recreating it in his mind’s eye as I suspect he does whenever he visits a place.

We find Kirill between two cars filled with bullet holes, and I mean completely fucked up with bullets like in some Middle Eastern war. Two bodies lie limp around him as he punches an Albanian to a pulp. Even though the man is not small by any means, Kirill has made a bloody painting out of his face. His features are unrecognizable, eyes swollen, lip busted, and shirt soaked with blood and dirt.

Every time he punches him, the man’s blood sprays on Kirill’s shirt, face, and even glasses. That’s a first for someone who’s so meticulous and never gets his hands dirty.

“I said…” He breathes harshly. “Where the fuck is your nest of cowards? Where do you rats hide? Huh?”

The man groans with obvious pain but says nothing. If anything, he smirks, and that gets him a brutish punch to the skull.

“He won’t talk.” Damien leans against a car as his closest guard fusses with a wound in his bicep. “The others didn’t before we killed them.”

“Where’s Rai?” I don’t recognize my voice, the rage in it and…the fear. A fear so deep I can taste the bitterness of it.

Damien shakes his head once. “They took her.”

His words strike me like a thunderbolt in the middle of a raging sea.

They took her.

The Albanians took her.

Nicolo’s words from earlier and his retellings about what they did to his grandmother wrap a tight noose around my throat. It keeps suffocating me with every gruesome detail he mentioned.

I storm in front of Damien and grab him by the throat. “How the fuck did you let them take her? Where the fuck were you?”