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Guns click all around me as Griffin yanks a loaded Smith and Wesson from his waistband. “Lach, what the fuck are you doing, mate?”
This gets Alexei’s attention before he dives into an old-style Town Car.
The man who’s drunk, the old slob who just nailed every stripper, who’s marrying Katya,my Katya,hurls by the dumpster.
“What is this?” Alexei barks.
Out of respect, I let go of Sergei. “My mistake, pakhan. A misunderstanding.”
Alexei eyes Sergei, who’s gone pale.
“Da. A misunderstanding, pakhan.” Sergei backs me up.
Alexei looks worn out and tired. He says something in Russian, and his men fall in line behind him.
“Big day tomorrow.” Sergei, whose color returned, gives me a friendly pat on the arm.
“Tomorrow?”
“Da. Wedding at St. Agatha’s, 11 a.m. There’s a lavish reception at the compound, then they’re flying to Moscow tomorrow night.”
“Over my dead body,” I mutter, watching the Russian entourage drive away.
“What the hell is going on?” Griffin pulls me back to his Escalade.
“Alexei is marrying Katya off to that lowlife who banged all the strippers.”
“Shite,” Griffin mutters and then grins. “Maybe you should stop the wedding and marry her yourself. I’m betting she’s a virgin, and you can get your groove back, showing her the ropes.” He smacks my arm and gets in the driver’s seat. “Come on, if that scum banged all the strippers tonight, I wouldn’t stick my dick in them with ten condoms on.”
His suggestion rings in my ears like a hail of gunshots knocked out my hearing. When he grabs the gear shift, I close my hand around his and squeeze.
Griffin wails in pain. “Jesus, fuck, what are you doing?”
“I’m gonna need fifty men. Heavily armed, lots of rounds, sharp shooters on every fucking roof.” I bang out a text to Riordan:
Me: I need the helicopter tomorrow.
“What the hell is going on?”
“For tomorrow, to stop the wedding, like you said.”
Griffin’s eyes widen. “Lachlan, I waskidding.”
“Pity, I’m not.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Katya
Theflightthiseveningis my last hope. No way will an airline let a beat-up, hysterical woman on a plane. I plan to make a scene. Find a police officer. Show him my bruises and make him help me.
“Just keep the veil lowered until the end of the ceremony,” Nadia, who arrived early to help me get ready, says when the sixth application of her powder foundation won’t hide the yellow and purple star-shaped bruise on my cheek.
The bright blue eyeshadow, that makes me look like a clown, barely hides the red blister above my left eye.
I’m no stranger to punishing bruises. Despite ballerinas looking graceful and delicate, rehearsing and practicing is brutal on our bodies. Male dancers don’t always catch us when we’re flung in the air. Like football players who beg to go back on the field with a concussion, I have the same drive and don’t want to be sidelined. I’ve shown up to rehearsals with cracked ribs and purple, swollen ankles wrapped in perfect, pretty satin to fool instructors.
It made me tough. The pain in my face is laughable. The terror rising in my throat is fear that I will end up in Russia. Married to a monster who will beat me daily.
