Page 15 of Twisted Princess

Gavriil sees it as soon as I think it. And he immediately starts to cuss the Irishman out. “Stop throwing knives at him, mudak!” he snarls, calling his Irish companion an asshole.

“What? Did I scare you?” the Irishman teases.

Then he pales visibly beneath his rudy freckles as I spin, grasping the handles of both knives in one fluid motion.

Roman scrambles to his feet, launching himself at me in an attempt to stop me. But he’s not quite fast enough. The blades come free of the wall with a grating snick. And in a flash, I open several long red lines across my younger brother’s chest.

They’re not deep. They won’t kill him. But they’re enough to stop him in his tracks. He stares down in horror at the shredded fabric of his white shirt as it quickly turns crimson.

“You’re dead, brat,” Gavriil snarls, and though he calls me brother in our native tongue, he spits it like a cuss word, throwing it in my face as an insult.

I twirl the knives, adjusting my grip, and I smile viciously. “Let’s see what you got, bol’shoy brat,” I taunt, settling into a crouch.

I know I shouldn’t provoke him—not if I want to keep him alive. And unfortunately, I do. Because the more Kelly men I kill, the likelier I am to spark a conflict between the Veles and Boston mob. The last thing Pyotr needs right now is to have a war on two fronts.

Still, I can’t help myself. Aside from my brothers Kostya and Sascha, my family brings out the worst in me.

Gavriil snarls, launching himself down the alley behind Beacon’s Butchery with a ferocity that would rival a boar’s. But like many of my brothers, his bulk is a disadvantage against my dexterity. I’m beyond his trajectory before he has time to pivot. He slams into the wall as I twist to slice one blade across the back of his knee.

Releasing a string of curses in Russian, he doesn’t skip a beat. Planting his hands on the alley wall to steady himself, he turns and launches a punch at my face. It comes close enough to send a breeze through my hair on its way. But this time, without distractions, I manage to dodge the heavy blow.

At the same time, I spin, sweeping out with one leg to knock Roman’s feet out from under him before he can decide if he wants to stay and fight or flee to lick his wounds. His back hits the ground, forcing the air from his lungs on a huff.

That’s when I catch sight of the Irishman’s gun from the corner of my eye.

Durak. I’m starting to think this guy’s only put half of his two brain cells to use.

Unlike my brothers, he’s clearly not trained for fighting three-on-one against a deadly opponent. If he were, he would know better than to draw a weapon that could just as likely kill his allies as it would me.

Taking advantage of his stupidity, I quickly step left.

He follows with his eyes, tracking my motion along the sight of his gun, giving himself tunnel vision.

A shot rings out, the sound reverberating against the brick walls and making my ears throb.

“Mudak!” Gavriil bellows. My hulking brother hunches, grasping his shoulder that serves as my shield.

I take advantage of the momentary confusion. Whirling around, I sprint down the alley, launching myself over the ten-foot-tall chain-link fence, caging me in. Pain lances across my side, and I clap my hand over the knife wound as I near the corner. Two more bullets ping off the sidewalk by my heels before I make it behind cover.

I’m slinging my leg over my black Triumph Daytona a second later, revving the engine even as I kick up its stand. And I race back toward Harlem, praying the Kellys’ hitmen haven’t found my condo.

The luxury of a motorcycle in New York City is that traffic impacts me far less than the typical driver—particularly at rush hour. Which it happens to be. Completely ignoring the laws of the road, I weave between cars and onto the sidewalk when necessary to get to Mel in record time.

I park my sports bike in the garage beneath my building, my anxiety hitting an all-time high. Because if Vincent’s sent this many men to kill me, they might have figured out where I live by now.

Not that I’ve made it easy for them.

I bought the condo in cash under a fake identity that my brother Kostya helped me create when we fled Boston. Back then, it was to ensure our father wouldn’t track us down and try to drag us home. But now, it serves to keep my safe house for Mel far more protected than, say, the Veles family’s home. Because it’s not entirely a secret who I’m working for these days.

Still, I can’t help but worry that one of my brothers took the trouble to follow the very fine paper trail to my condo. And if they did, Mel and Gabby are in very real danger.

Rather than wait for the elevator, I take the stairs up to the twelfth floor—too impatient to wait for a ride. And by the time I step out of the stairwell, my injured side is burning, dark crimson soaking my black shirt. One hand covering it to slow the blood flow, I stalk forward.

The hallway to my apartment is quiet. Everything appears perfectly in order. And the door is still soundly in its frame, meaning they didn’t break in this way, at least.

The knot of tension quivers in my stomach as I slide my key into the lock and quickly let myself through the front door.

The main room is painfully quiet. The lack of noise batters my ear as I strain to hear Gabby’s childish giggle. Mel’s soft, even voice.

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