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)
“Seal the exits,” he says in a tone that is far too calm and polite for the current slough of chaos.
A burst of gunfire cracks again, closer now. I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting metal, then glass, then something softer that makes a man cry out in a way that turns my stomach. The screaming spreads again as the crowd gets the message that this isn’t just a warning shot. This is an invasion, and no one is safe just because they wore a suit.
I keep my chin lifted and my face blank.
Still, my eyes immediately track movement through the chaos. Men in dark clothing are pushing into the venue from the front and from the side, moving with purpose. They don’t fire wildly. They fire in controlled bursts, and only at Mikhail’s men.
Mikhail’s security returns fire, and the room becomes a series of pockets. Guests scatter in clumps, crawling behind tables or pushing toward corners that are less exposed. Security teams form tight clusters, firing from cover, communicating with hand signals and quick verbal orders. The only light is coming from fairy lights that must be battery-operated. It gives the whole violent scene an almost whimsical glow. It’s all such an absurd juxtaposition.
A man in a gray suit tries to sprint up the aisle, maybe thinking he can reach the side exit before anyone notices. He makes it three steps before a bullet catches him in the leg. He drops hard, crashing into the aisle runner and grabbing at his thigh with both hands as blood pours through his fingers. He screams and tries to crawl, leaving a streak behind him that ruins the illusion of white purity Mikhail decorated this place with. Two women step back from him instinctively, horror on their faces, and one of them falls into a chair when her knees give out.
Mikhail’s attention stays fixed somewhere past the destruction, toward the door where the assault is thickest. He’s listening, calculating, deciding whether this is a rival crew hoping to embarrass him or this is something more direct. His grip on my wrist tightens again, and it reminds me that in his mind, I am the anchor point of this entire war. This building is just a stage. I’m the objective.
He leans slightly toward one of his men.
“Find out if Kovalev is here,” he says, still calm.
The man’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second before he looks away. He knows. They all know. This is not a random attack. No one storms a Grinkov wedding because they want to make a statement. They storm a Grinkov wedding because they want something they cannot get any other way.
They’re here for me.
A sharp crack of gunfire hits close to the front, then another, then the sound of a door being forced open hard enough that the hinges scream. The crowd surges again, and the entire center aisle shifts like it’s breathing. A chandelier-style light fixture swings, and glass droplets from it rain down like tiny knives. Someone screams and covers their head, and I don’t blame them. The room is turning into a slaughterhouse and no one is brave when they realize bravery won’t stop a bullet.
A guard near me lifts his weapon and aims toward the aisle, and Mikhail snaps, “Not near her,” in a voice that still never rises, which is almost more terrifying than yelling. The guard adjusts his angle immediately, obedient.
Mikhail will let the guests die if it serves him. He will not let me get hit unless it becomes necessary. It’s not because he loves me, though. It’s because he refuses to lose.
A cluster of men pushes down the aisle, weapons up, firing in measured bursts. They move like they’ve done this together before. They move like they trust each other. Then I see him.
Viktor is in the middle of that line, tall and broad and terrifyingly focused. He isn’t scanning the room like he’s worried about being shot. He’s scanning for me, and the second his eyes find mine across the cacophony, something in my chest tightens so hard it feels like it might break. Yet as relieved as I am, I’m furious at him for risking his life like this. All he’s done is put himself in Mikhail’s crosshairs.
He locks eyes with me for one moment, and the room feels smaller. The gunfire feels farther away. The screaming becomes a dull roar, like someone turned the volume down. His gaze flicks down my body once, fast and controlled, checking that I’m upright, checking that I’m breathing, checking that I’m still in one piece. His mouth tightens, and I see something dark move behind his eyes.
Mikhail notices it too. He follows my gaze, and his smile changes slightly. The politeness drains out of it, leaving something colder. His hand slides from my wrist to the small of my back, a possessive touch meant to taunt Viktor. His fingers press lightly, as if he’s guiding me, as if I’m his bride and not his hostage.