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“Do you need to pu—” Dmitry started, his voice breathless as he lifted up from his seat, pulling another gun out of the back of his pants and dropping the old one at his feet.
“I swear to God if you say pull over, Dmitry, I’m going to shoot you myself,” I ground out from between my clenched teeth, eyeing the rearview mirror. A car was careening across the road behind us. The bullets were hitting the body of the car less and less as we sped off, but a ping still sounded every few seconds.
“Spaseeba,” he grunted, a half chuckle behind the apology. He positioned himself between the driver’s seat and the console, lifting and turning his torso so that he could face the now open window behind us. I could feel the control it took for him to steady himself there, that gun lifting, and even though I could hear the sound of his gun going off, I couldn’t hear the bullets leaving it.
It was why I watched in surprise as rubber blew from the car behind us, one tire shredding into pieces and flying in different directions across the road, causing it to abandon tailing us. I almost cheered at the sight, but my levity was ruined the moment another car came flying up from behind the previous one. My fingers tightened over the steering wheel and gearshift, increasing my speed and moving between the gears with grim determination.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the blood lining his jacket, and a kind of déjà vu washed over me. I wheeled the car down a side street, grimacing at the way the tail of it swung behind us.
“Vot eto pizdets!” The Russian burst from me as he fell against the passenger door with a grunt. “Did you go in there and get yourself shot!?” I demanded, my voice rising in my hysteria. I could still see the car in the rearview, and the blood on his hands now too, and my brain rushed to try and contain all both of these worries at once.
His laughter only made me narrow my eyes more. “Nyet! You do not get to laugh at that! Did you get shot?!” I demanded again, swallowing back the rest of the curses that I wanted to throw at his stupid, laughing head.
“Nyet,” he ground out through his laughter, rubbing his hand over his face and turning to look through the back windshield. “It is just my arm, wife. My arm and Lebev’s blood . . . and the two Italians who escaped my father’s.”
I shifted gears again, going silent as I contemplated the relief that flooded me.
You do not have to like him, she’d said. But I’d gone and fucked that up royally as well. How fitting, married to Bratva royalty like I was. . .
