Page 88 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“Fine,” I whisper. “Go. But you damn well better come back.”

He kisses me, hard and fast. Then he’s gone, the door sliding shut behind him.

I’m alone in the darkness.

The panic room is small, barely bigger than a closet. There’s a monitor on the wall that shows feeds from security cameras throughout the penthouse, and I can see Roman moving through the kitchen with his gun raised.

I hear the sound of the front door being forced, followed by the crash of glass and the staccato burst of gunfire.

I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a scream.

The monitor shows men in dark clothing pouring into the penthouse. They’re armed, moving with the kind of precision that speaks to training. Roman takes cover behind the kitchen island, firing back with controlled bursts.

One of the men goes down. Then another. Roman is outnumbered, but he’s fighting like a man possessed.

I hear shouting, though I can’t make out the words. The gunfire is louder now, echoing off the walls of the penthouse. I can smell smoke through the panic room doors, or maybe that’s just my imagination.

On the monitor, I see Roman take a hit. He staggers, his shoulder jerking back, but he doesn’t go down. He keeps firing, his face a mask of concentration.

Then something slams against the panic room door.

I jump back, my heart in my throat. The door is reinforced steel, designed to withstand exactly this kind of attack, but the impact still makes me flinch.

A body hits the door again. Then the speaker to my left crackles.

“Vera.” It’s Roman, his tone strained but alive. “Stay put. No matter what you hear, you stay in there. Do you understand me?”

“Roman, what’s going on?”

“Promise me.”

I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face. “I promise.”

“Good.” I can hear him moving away, his footsteps heavy on the floor.

I press my hand to my stomach, to the life growing there, and pray.

Outside the door, the gunfire continues.

26

ROMAN

The first man comes at me low, aiming for my legs. I sidestep and drive my elbow into the back of his neck. He goes down hard, but the second is already swinging. I catch his fist on my forearm, pain lancing up to my shoulder, and return with a hook that snaps his head back.

The third man hangs back, circling. Smart. He’s assessing, looking for an opening.

I don’t give him one.

The second attacker recovers faster than I expect, lunging forward with a grunt. I pivot, using his momentum against him, and slam him face-first into the wall. The drywall cracks. He slumps, unconscious or dead; I don’t care which.

I reach for my gun and let off two shots just in case. If they weren’t dead before, they are now. Crimson blood spreads across the hardwood floor.

Two down. More in the hallway.

I can hear them coordinating, their footsteps spreading out. They’re trying to flank me, to cut off any escape route. They don’t know about the panic room, or Vera hidden behind steel walls.

That’s the only thing keeping me focused.