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Everything happens in slow motion. I see the slight squeeze of his finger around the trigger. His men move as a unit, preparing to riddle Samuil and me full of holes. My brother is already reacting, pulling out his guns to open fire.
Any other man would have frozen in place, a deer in the headlights.
But I’m not any other man. I came prepared, always on the cusp of a fight. All it takes is a single gesture of my hand—
Faster than the blink of an eye, Barda and his men go down, bullets placed neatly in the center of their chests. They land with a hard thud, groaning and sputtering in confusion. I turn to look at the building behind us, focusing on the three snipers positioned on the roof: Roman, Damien, and Leo.
“Fuck’s sake,” Samuil grumbles. “Good thing you thought to bring them with us.”
I huff, stepping forward to check on Barda. He’s still alive, for the moment. “Did you seriously think I’d come without backup?”
“Go to hell,” Barda hisses.
I aim my gun at him. “Keep my spot warm.”
Before I’m able to pull the trigger, my phone dings. I have every intention of ignoring it when it dings again. Someone’s messaging me with great urgency, and I’m curious to know why.
EMERGENCY!!!
I frown at my phone in alarm, confused by Sandra’s text.
What’s going on? Are you okay?
I need your help! Please tell me you can make it to the Barovsky by tomorrow morning, no later than nine? It’s urgent!!!
A strange, uneasy sensation crawls up the back of my neck. Is Sandra in trouble?
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Chapter 23
Sandra
I need to see you. It’s urgent.
Istare at my phone, mildly confused. Isn’t Andrei out of town?
Is something wrong?
Can’t tell you over text. Our usual spot at the Barvosky. Tomorrow morning by nine.
A strange, sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. Call it intuition. A sixth sense. If this is Andrei, then whatever he has to tell me is clearly something big and sensitive in nature.
I’ll be there.
“Sweetie?”
I look up to find my mother stepping into the kitchen. She wears a soft smile, bundled up in one of Dad’s sweaters. It’s surprisingly drafty in the house today, and I frankly don’t blame her for stealing one of Dad’s comfiest cashmere knits.
“Is something wrong? You look troubled.”
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “It’s nothing. Just… work.”
Mom joins me by the counter, reaching for a mug to make herself a cup of tea. “How are you handling things? I know it must be such a huge responsibility.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. I’m getting used to it.”
She rubs my arm. “I’m glad to hear it, but…” Mom sighs deeply. “You’ve been acting a little strange, Sandy. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”
