Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I move down the aisle like it’s a corridor in a war zone. Sergei stays tight on my left. Two men cover behind. The rest press in from the side entrance, forcing Belov’s security inward and breaking their perimeter into pockets.
A gunshot cracks close to my ear. A bullet clips a support beam, spraying splinters. I pivot and see a shooter on the balcony level, tucked behind the railing drapery. I fire once. He drops out of sight. I keep moving.
The officiant is nowhere to be seen. The arch of flowers at the front is still standing, pristine and absurd amid the chaos. A microphone lies on the floor, abandoned.
Someone yells my name from behind.
“Viktor, right side.”
I shift, firing toward movement near the tables. A man goes down. Another crawls away, clutching his leg, leaving a smear of blood across the white floor. I step over it without looking.
A shape appears at the front of the aisle, and my body reacts before my brain finishes the thought. It’s a woman wearing white. She isn’t moving. She’s standing still like she wants to be taken out.
For a moment the gunfire becomes distant. The screaming becomes a dull roar. The room tilts, and the only thing that stays fixed is her.
The dress is expensive and structured, meant to make her look delicate. She’s never been delicate. She’s a warrior. Even in that dress, even with her hair pinned and her face made up, she looks like herself. Her posture is rigid. Her chin is lifted. Her eyes are sharp.
She doesn’t look broken. She looks determined. She turns her head slightly, and her eyes find mine across the destruction. For a second, I see something flicker there.
The crowd around her shifts. Guards tighten in a semicircle. Someone grabs her arm. Mikhail is near her, dressed in dark suit, calm amidst the chaos, as if this is still his stage and he still believes he can control the script.
He leans close to her like he’s whispering something. My vision goes hot at the edges. Sergei’s voice cuts through the narrowing.
“Viktor, you need to keep moving. If you stop here, they will reposition.”
“I see her,” I answer.
Sergei stays firm. “Then get her so we can get the hell out of here.”
That’s the only thing I want.
I push forward.
Belov’s men fire from the left. A bullet cracks into the floor near my foot. I don’t slow. One of my men goes down behind me with a grunt. Another grabs him and drags him backward. Sergei fires twice, dropping the shooter who tried to pin us. The table behind that shooter splinters. A glass centerpiece shatters.
A woman screams again, higher this time, and I don’t even look to see who it is. My focus is a straight line between Anya and me.
Someone steps into my path with a gun. I shoot him in the chest and keep moving as his body collapses into the aisle. Sergei mutters a curse under his breath. My men tighten formation again. Anya’s gaze stays on me.
She’s surrounded, but she’s still upright. She’s still composed. She’s still refusing to give Mikhail what he wants.
The moment I get close enough to see the tension in her jaw, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and the way her hand hovers near her abdomen like she’s anchoring herself, something inside me breaks loose.
She’s mine. The child she’s carrying is mine. Mikhail Grinkov messed with the wrong fucking guy.
28
ANYA
The moment the lights go dark, I know my decision has been made for me. Someone’s come to interrupt the wedding. Someone who I presume is Viktor.
The first wave of screaming starts on the far side of the room, near the doors. It moves across the tables like a ripple. People duck under white linens and topple chairs, knocking over centerpieces that explode into glass and water and flowers. A woman in black lace screams someone’s name and grabs at his sleeve, dragging him toward an exit that is already blocked by bodies. Someone else shoves her and she stumbles, then drops to her knees and crawls away.
The aisle that was meant to feel ceremonial becomes a corridor of chaos. The draped fabric overhead sways as people slam into support beams. A candle display goes down in a crash of metal and flame, and someone in a suit yelps as fire brushes his pantleg.
The guards on the perimeter don’t move like the guests. They don’t bolt. They don’t freeze. They pivot and reposition, creating lines of sight, using overturned tables as cover and moving the crowd out of their shooting lanes with rough hands. They grab wrists and shoulders and shove people down, not because they care if someone gets trampled. They care about clear angles. They care about stopping the assault.
Mikhail turns his head slightly, eyes still calm, and speaks low enough that the nearest guards can hear him without anyone else catching every word.