Page 29 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
We left just after midnight. The street outside gleamed with cold rain, lamps and headlights throwing gold reflections across the wet pavement. Our driver pulled the SUV to the curb, and Boris stepped out first, still laughing, slightly drunk, still gesturing with the confidence of a man who thought the city was his stage.
That’s when the car came.
Black sedan. Windows down.
The muzzle flash bloomed like fireworks.
“Down!” I roared, shoving Boris hard enough that he stumbled against the wall. Bullets chewed into the marble façade of the restaurant, glass shattering, the night erupting in screams. Dima hit the ground, gun already in his hand. Konstantin was a deadly shadow, pulling his pistol and returning fire with calm precision.
Boris fell. Blood spread across his sleeve, his chest, and his throat was hoarse with curses.
I dragged him behind the SUV, my body covering his, gun cool in my palm as I fired three shots toward the sedan. Tires screeched. The car fishtailed, horns honked, then it vanished down the slick street, taillights bleeding into traffic.
Silence rang in the aftermath, broken only by Boris’s ragged breathing.
“Fuck,” he snarled, clutching the mess of blood on his chest. His grin was gone, and his eyes burned. “Those fucking Armenian rats. I’ll gut them all.”
He choked.
“You’ll bleed out if you don’t shut up,” I snapped, pressing my hand to the wound. Blood slicked my palm. “Get the car.”
Dima was already moving. Konstantin kept his gun steady, eyes sharp on the rooftops until the SUV door was thrown open. We shoved Boris inside and peeled out toward the hospital.
The waiting was the worst. Hospitals reeked of disinfectant and death, and I couldn’t stand it. Konstantin leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the double doors like he could get them to open by sheer will. Dima paced, muttering under his breath in Russian.
When the doctor finally came out, his words were brisk. “He’ll live. Bullet missed anything vital. He’ll need rest, but he’s lucky.”
Lucky. That was one word for it.
Inside the ICU room, Boris looked pale but alive, arm and chest bandaged under a generic hospital gown. He was still cursing, still vowing revenge. The sight of him breathing should have been a relief. Instead, it tightened something in my chest.
Because if they’d wanted him dead, they would have finished the job. This wasn’t an execution. It was a message.
“They’re testing us,” Konstantin said quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “Testing for weakness.”
“And they’ll keep testing,” Dima added grimly. “Especially with you leaving for Chicago.”
Konstantin gave a sharp nod. His transfer was already in motion. Soon, he’d take control of the Bratva’s Chicago arm. That meant fewer men here. Fewer shields.
Which left us exposed.
Boris shifted on the bed, his grin creeping back despite the pain. “Then we send a message louder than theirs. Maksim, you’ll fly to Moscow. Bring back men we can trust. Reinforcements. The Armenians want war? We’ll give them war.”
The decision settled like lead in my gut. Flying back to Russia meant leaving Sofia behind. Leaving her unprotected.
But the brotherhood came first. Always.
I nodded once. “I’ll go.”
Later, stepping out into the hospital parking lot, the night pressed heavy around me. The rain had stopped, and the city smelled clean for once. I lit a cigarette, watching the ember flare in the dark.
Tonight was a reminder that we weren’t invincible.
That’s when I felt it again.
Eyes.
Someone was there.
