Page 76 of Lord of the Underworld

Slava Bogu – Russian for Thank God

Chapter Thirty-Four

In which this is not the nice Russian Christmas we were hoping for.

Oksana…

Moscow is never more beautiful than at Christmas.

Christmas Market on Red Square is one of my favorite places to stroll and people watch. Every one of the old buildings is outlined with lights, and against the backdrop of St. Basil's Cathedral, the Christmas tree soars up to the heavens.

"Look, there's a view of the Kremlin," Anka says, nudging me with her shoulder and we both crack up, remembering the Bridal Suite ordeal.

"I wasn't sure Vadim was going to let you out of the house," she says, looking back at the six bodyguards following us.

We're walking through the market in the middle of a ridiculous box formation, six guards in front of us in addition to the rear guard, and four men on either side of us. When we stop at a stall for roasted chestnuts, or to pick up a scarf or some of the beautifully carved woodwork, there is a shift in formation, at least three of them muttering into their headsets while the guards sort of open like a hinge, letting us look at the alarmed stall keeper's goods.

"I wasn't sure he would, either," I say honestly. When I'd suggested visiting the market with Anka, I could already see the word 'no' forming on Vadim's lips. He couldn't take us; there was a group of arms dealers flying into Moscow to meet with him and his father about the ghost guns. He tells me that production is ahead of schedule and everyone is closing in, eager to take a bite.

"Papa took a look at your regiment here and told me I'd be fine with just Oleg," she says, popping another roasted chestnut in her mouth. The Volkov bodyguard is in the corner of the formation, grim but professional.

"I'm so happy you're coming back to Chicago." I link arms with her as she juggles her spiced wine and her chestnuts.

"You cannot know how much I've missed you," she says fervently. "Now that Kirill's back, every precious Bratva princess from here to St. Petersburg has been flooding me with invitations. Not because they want to see me, heavens no. They want a look at my very single brother.

“One of them - do you remember Natasha Arkanov, her father's running some of the Siberian mines? Anyway, she showed up at the house, pretending that she thought that's where we were meeting for lunch and stood there in the hall, eye-licking Kirill." She shudders. "I don't answer my phone anymore unless it's you."

"I feel this so much," I say. "Except that I'm stuck with two eligible brothers. Well, not Maks, really. He has the mind and sense of humor of a 12-year-old and told me once in complete seriousness that he wanted to be a professional skateboarder."

"Does Maks know how to skateboard?" Anka asks.

"Who knows? It's not like Moscow is a professional skateboarding mecca," I help myself to a sip of her spiced wine. "Anyway, Nikolai being single and the next Pakhan is bad enough."

Three children run in front of us, screeching and laughing excitedly, bringing our bodyguard blockade to a halt. The oldest turns to look at me as he races by, his eyes are off, somehow. They're glittering, eager.

There's a soft grunt to my left, the thud of a body dropping behind me. In the space between two breaths, the faces surrounding us are no longer our bodyguards. John Stevens has a gun in my ribs and Anka and I are almost carried into a van. "You-" I hiss as the door slams shut.

The gritty floor of the van is rough against my face; it smells like motor oil and stale bread in here. There's a sting on my finger as someone rips my wedding ring off. The driver hits the gas pedal and Anka lets out a shriek as we slam against the side.

"How could it happen?" Anka asks numbly. "Our bodyguards were there and they were gone. It's not possible." She is handling this really well, even though her face is concerningly pale.

The men zip-tied our hands and feet together but didn't bother gagging us. "It's a group of hunters," I say. I don't bother lowering my voice. "The Black Kynigós. They'll work for the scum of the earth. Vadim says they're almost like a religious order. Though that will hardly matter when he and your father cut them into pieces."

There's a low chuckle behind us; the rest of the men are silent until the van pulls over and the door slides open. We're on a side street, not one I recognize. Looking around the dim interior, I see ten men in all. I stare at each one, trying to memorize their faces. Most of them are dressed in street clothes. John Stevens and two other hunters are in black tactical gear.

We are hoisted out of the van and my heart leaps. "Just drop us here," Anka starts negotiating and I love her for it. "You recognized this was a mistake. Good."

They’ve parked the van under a little group of trees, so no street cameras will catch this. An SUV pulls up behind us.

"We know it's one of you," John says crisply. "You both fit the profile. So, you can either die together or you can tell the truth."

"It's me," Anka says instantly.

"Oh, honey, don't," I say, my heart shredding at the determined look on her face. She doesn't even know what's happening and she's trying to save me. It's my fault she's here. Sucking in a shuddering breath, I look at John. There's nothing there that's human, nothing left in him to appeal to.

"Stop playing games," I say. "It's unprofessional. You already know it's me."

"Ah, but I was not completely certain until you confirmed it." He smiles tauntingly.