Page 66 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I release Oksana and turn for the door, my mind already racing ahead.

“Roman, wait.” Oksana reaches for me, but I shake her off.

“There’s no time to wait. If they’re at the church, then that’s where I need to be.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No.” I point at Lev. “Stay here. Make sure no one else gets in. I’ll handle this myself.”

Lev’s expression is grim, but he nods. “Be careful.”

I’m already out the door and down the stairs, my feet pounding against the concrete as I race toward the car. When I get there, Artyom is still behind the wheel. His eyes go wide as I throw myself into the back seat.

“St. Nicholas Church,” I say. “Now.”

The car lurches forward, tires squealing against the pavement. I pull out my phone and dial Konstantin’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try Anton’s number with the same result.

They’ve planned this well. They knew I’d be occupied with Kozlov, and they probably also knew the security detail.

The church appears on the horizon, its white steeple rising above the surrounding buildings like a beacon. I can see cars parked outside, and men in dark suits standing at the entrance. The whole thing has the feel of a performance.

“Artyom, keep the car running.”

He nods as I climb out. The evening air is cool against my skin, a contrast to the heat burning inside me. I move through the shadows, staying close to the buildings.

The side door of the church is unlocked. I slip inside and find myself in a narrow hallway that leads to the main sanctuary. The sound of voices reaches me, muffled by the heavy wooden doors.

I push through.

The sanctuary is lit by dozens of candles, their flames casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The pews are filled with people, though their backs are turned and I can’t tell who’s who.

With a scowl, I slip back into the hallway. My mind is a mess of possibilities, and none of them are good. Every scenario I can think of ends with Vera in Anton’s hands, and that’s not an outcome I’m willing to accept.

The hallway is narrow; walls of rough stone scrape against my shoulder as I move. There’s a door at the end, and warm light spills through the gap. I can hear movement.

I push the door open and step inside.

The room is small, barely more than a closet. Vestments hang from hooks on the wall, their gold embroidery catching the light. A wooden table holds a chalice and a cross, both polished to a shine. Standing in the center of it all, his back to me as he rifles through a drawer, is the priest.

He’s old. Older than I expected, with a face like crumpled paper and hands that tremble as he works.

He turns when he hears my footsteps. His eyes widen when they land on my face, recognition dawning slow and terrible across his features.

“Mr. Volkonsky,” he stammers. “I didn’t expect... you can’t be in here.”

I cross the room before he can finish the sentence. My hand connects with the side of his head, and the blow sends him crumpling to the floor. He goes down without a sound, his body folding in on itself as he drops.

I stand over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. He’s unconscious, not dead. That’s all I need.

The organ starts in the next room, its notes swelling through the walls.

20

VERA

The call ends.

I stare at the phone in my hand, though I’m shaking so badly I can hardly read the screen.