Page 21 of Cashmere Cruelty

And then it begins.

The first punch flies from the back rows. Of course it does—that’s where the Groza and Solovyov men sit mixed with each other. It was Grisha’s brilliant idea: a show of unity.

Right now, “unity” looks like a broken, bloodied nose.

“You!” the Solovyov grunt yells above the crowd. “How dare you insult ourprintsessalike that?”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?!”

“Know your place,salaga.Did you forget who’s your newpakhan?!”

Fists go flying.

So does the furniture.

… and Vlad’sveryexpensive, imported ornaments.

A chair soars above the crowd, landing with a vicious crack on the back of one of my men. The Groza group responds by hurling the entire row back at the offending Solovyovs.

A wooden leg hits the latch on the birdcage. White doves are released, flocking at the wrong angle, diving straight into the brawling guests’ faces. Cheeks get scratched; eyes get pecked; feathers scatter everywhere.

I duck under a Fabergé egg screaming toward me like a bullet. It misses my head by a hair and buries itself in the six-tier wedding cake resting at the center of the table.

I can hear Petra’s horrified gasp as the cake begins to sway, threatening everyone in the vicinity with a Madagascar vanilla bath. Which is probably the finest thing most of these men have ever bathed with, but still—not exactly the use we had in mind.

Yuri rushes over to save it, but to no avail. The cake swallows him whole.

I turn my eyes to the cause of this whole nightmare as it explodes in every direction around me. There she is: April Flowers, dodging chairs and plucking feathers out of her hair.

“Congratulations, Miss!” one of my men has the gall to yell over the chaos, giving the woman a quick bow of respect as he kicks a Solovyov grunt in the knees.

“Oh, um. Thank you,” Ms. Flowers replies, ever-so-politely.

I decide I’ve had enough of this farce.

I take out my gun and shoot.

As quickly and violently as it began, the brawl halts. The terrace falls silent. My gun, pointed straight at the sky, smokes. No one is looking anywhere else now—anywhere but me.

April Flowers included.

And then a dead dove falls on Petra’s white shoes, and my bride screams. Chaos resumes quickly after that.

So much for crowd control. This situation is officially beyond saving.

“Boss,” Grisha calls, rushing over to me, “we’ve got a problem.”

“No shit.”

“No,” he insists, grabbing my elbow. “We’ve got aproblem.”

I follow Grisha’s line of sight. On the other side of the altar, flanked by two bodyguards, Vlad the Garden Gnome is making his way to me.

And he doesn’t look happy in the least.

“Blyat’,” I curse, holstering my gun and jumping down the altar. On my way down the nave, I mutter to Grisha, “Get this under control.”

“I’ll do my best, boss.”

---