Page 44 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
She reaches across the table to touch my hand, and her fingers are warm against my knuckles. “It’s close enough that I can pretend we’re just a married couple having dinner, instead of aBratvaboss and his reluctant wife trying to figure out how to survive in each other’s world.”
The contact is simple and innocent, but it sends electricity through my nervous system. Weeks ago, the idea of Zita touching me voluntarily would’ve seemed impossible. Now, the feel of her skin against mine has become something I crave in ways that alarm me.
“I never wanted a reluctant wife,” I turn my hand palm up to capture her fingers. “I wanted a partner but never expected you’d be someone who’d choose to be—” Before I can finish speaking, the sound of breaking glass from the main dining room shatters the intimacy of the moment.
My training kicks in immediately. I release Zita’s hand and reach for the Glock concealed beneath my jacket, my body already moving toward her as shouts erupt from beyond our private dining room’s closed door.
“Get down.” I push her behind the substantial oak table as the door to our room explodes inward.
Three men in black tactical gear pour through the entrance, their faces hidden behind ski masks, holding automatic weapons as they sweep the room. I recognize the tactical formation immediately as indicating they’ve had military training.
Interesting, but no match for my skills.
I put two rounds into the side of the first gunman, bypassing his protective vest, before he can acquire Zita as a target. The second shooter gets off a burst that shatters the crystal chandelier above our heads, sending shards of expensive glass raining down on the overturned table where Zita has taken cover.
The third gunman is smarter and more patient. He uses his fallen comrades as cover while he tries to flank our position,keeping his weapon trained on the space where Zita crouches behind increasingly inadequate protection.
I don’t give him the chance.
The Spetsnaz training my father forced on me from age ten takes over completely. The three years I spent at a Siberian boarding school that was more like a prison than a camp taught me well. I move without conscious thought, muscle memory and thousands of hours of conditioning guiding my actions. A combat roll brings me within striking distance of the third shooter. I take the knife I always carry, even in formal attire, from my ankle sheath and throw it without overthinking. The blade finds the gap between his body armor and helmet with surgical precision.
He drops without firing another shot.
The entire encounter lasts less than ninety seconds, but it feels like hours. My ears ring from the gunfire in the enclosed space, and I taste copper and cordite in the air. The expensive molecular gastronomy is forgotten, replaced by the metallic flavor of violence and survival.
“Zita.” I call her name as I clear the rest of the room, checking corners and ensuring no additional threats remain. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Her voice is shaky but strong. “I’m not hurt.”
I help her from behind the table, noting the way her hands tremble as she brushes glass fragments from her hair. The black dress is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a small cut on her cheek from flying debris, but she’s alive, whole, and looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“We need to leave,” I tell her, already moving toward the secondary exit through the chef’s office that I planned for in case we needed it. “Now.”
As we reach the door, warm wetness spreads across my left shoulder, along with searing pain, and I realize the second gunman’s burst caught me after all. The adrenaline that carried me through the fight is beginning to fade, replaced by the sharp burn of torn flesh and muscle.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, her voice tight with concern.
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically, born from years of training that taught me never to show weakness or admit vulnerability even when bullets are lodged in my body.
“You’re not fine.” She touches my shoulder gently, her fingers coming away red with my blood. “You need medical attention.”
Viktor appears in the doorway, his own weapon drawn and his face grim with the aftermath of violence. “Building is secure, boss, but we need to move. Police response is three minutes out.”
The ride back to the mansion passes in a blur of sirens and radio chatter as my men coordinate our extraction from what was supposed to be a romantic evening. I sit in the passenger seat with a towel pressed against my shoulder, trying to ignore the way Zita watches me with growing concern from the seat behind us.
“How are you?” she asks as we pull through the mansion’s gates.
“Alive,” I say through gritted teeth. “That’s certainly better than the alternative.”
She gives me a tiny smile but it lacks sincerity. She’s clearly too worried to respond to my attempts to lighten the moment. It’s oddly touching and reminds me she cares.
The medical room in the mansion’s basement is something Zita’s never seen before. It’s a fully equipped trauma bay that can handle everything from gunshot wounds to emergency surgery. There’s another spacious suite next to the medical room that houses our live-in doctor.
Dr. Kozlova is already waiting with her surgical instruments laid out on sterile trays, and her expression professionally neutral as she assesses the damage to my shoulder. “The bullet went through cleanly,” she reports after her initial examination. “There’s muscle damage, but no arterial involvement. You were lucky.”
“Lucky.” I test the word as she begins cleaning the wound with alcohol that burns worse than the initial impact. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Zita stands near the door, her arms wrapped around herself as she watches Dr. Kozlova work. There’s something different about her expression. It’s not fear exactly, but a kind of stunned recognition that I can’t interpret.
