Page 89 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

The smart one, the one who was circling, makes his move. He’s got a knife now, its blade catching the light as he lunges. I twist away, feel the kiss of steel across my ribs. It’s shallow, more warning than wound even as I feel the sting.

I slam my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays. He staggers back, and I finish him with a shot to the chest.

The report echoes through the penthouse, loud enough that Vera must hear it. I try not to think about what she’s feeling right now, trapped in that room and listening to gunshots and fighting and not knowing if I’m still standing.

Focus.

I move into the hallway. The remaining four are positioned at either end, pinning me in the middle. It’s a standard tactic. It would work against someone less motivated.

I charge the pair to my left.

The element of surprise is on my side; they expected me to hunker down and wait for them to come to me. Instead I’m on them before they can adjust, close enough that their guns become liabilities. The first one tries to bring his weapon around; I grab his wrist and redirect, putting a bullet in his partner’s throat instead. He gurgles and drops.

The first one breaks free. I block his swing, take the hit on my shoulder, and drive my knee into his gut. When he doubles over, I put two in his chest.

Two left.

I hear them behind me, their footsteps careful now. They’ve realized this isn’t going to be as easy as they thought.

“Volkonsky.” The voice comes from the living room. Are they trying to negotiate? Cute. “This doesn’t have to end in blood. Hand over the woman and we walk away.”

I don’t bother responding. Instead I duck into the kitchen, using the island as cover. My ribs are screaming where the knife caught me, blood seeping through my shirt. I need to end this fast.

The first one rounds the corner and I’m ready. I grab him by the arm and use his own momentum to slam him into the granite countertop. He hits hard enough to crack the stone. Before he can recover, I snap his neck.

The last one is smarter. He’s positioned himself behind the couch, using it as cover. I can see the top of his head and the barrel of his gun.

“Last chance,” he calls out. “You’re bleeding out, Volkonsky. How long do you think you can keep this up?”

Long enough.

I grab the dead man’s gun, a compact Glock, lighter than mine, and roll across the open floor. He fires, misses. I come up shooting and catch him twice in the chest.

He drops.

Silence.

I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, my ears ringing from the gunfire. The penthouse is destroyed and there’s blood pooling on the hardwood floors. I know without checking that they are all Anton’s men.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with bloodstained fingers.

Lev. Safe house secured. Waiting for you.

I type back: On our way.

Then I walk to the panic room door and punch in the code.

Twenty minutes later, we’re on the road to the safe house, leaving the bloodshed behind us.

Vera hasn’t spoken since I pulled her out of the panic room. She looks at me, at the blood on my clothes, and her face goes pale. She doesn’t scream. Instead, she follows me out to the car, her hand gripping mine so tightly I think she might break my fingers.

She sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the dark countryside passing by. I keep my eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us.

She hasn’t asked if I’m okay. I think she already knows the answer.

The safe house appears on the horizon after forty minutes of driving. It’s a huge fortress-like estate hidden behind rolling hills and dense forest. It was my grandfather’s hunting lodge, once. Now it’s been retrofitted with enough security to withstand a siege.

Lev is waiting at the gate when we pull up. His eyes move over the car, then over me, cataloging the damage.