Page 88 of Bratva Bride
I let the question hang, not giving anything away. “I prefer to understand the histories of the people beside me. You are beside me a great deal.”
The room goes tenser by degrees. Viktor’s fingers drum once on the table. “Introductions cost money,” he answers. “You pay, doors open. After tonight those doors stay open because of what I just did, not what I paid.”
I nod slowly, showing no reaction beyond mild interest. “Fair enough.”
Viktor narrows his eyes, watching for something he can’t quite read. “Is this really the time for personal audits?”
I give him a slight smile and move my gaze to the council. “Just setting the record straight. We have a long night ahead.”
“Yes we do,” he says, finally turning to the rest of the council.
Viktor lifts his hand. Two of his men draw without hesitation and fire. The first muzzle flash paints the room white. I dive behind a toppled chair, splinters exploding around me. Bullets chew the wood, missing by inches. I roll, whip a fallen pistol from the carpet, and return fire. My round clips the nearest shooter’s thigh. He drops, howling. The second one charges.
I meet him halfway, ramming the butt of my gun into his throat. He gags, staggers. I twist his wrist, the weapon clattering free, then drive my elbow across his jaw. Bone cracks. He collapses at my feet.
I turn on the first man, still crawling for his gun. I stamp his wrist, feel the bones shift, then bury my fist in his temple. He goes limp. Blood spatters the polished floor.
The chamber is silent except for my breathing. Viktor stands by the table, amusement flickering in his eyes. He lifts a finger, and his remaining guards freeze.
I straighten, chest heaving, pulse thundering. I wipe blood from my cheek and face him. “What will I find underneath your shirt, Viktor?” My voice is low, gritty. “How long have you worked for them? The Veles?”
He tilts his head, smile thin. “So when did you piece it all together?”
“I didn’t,” I say, gun steady in my hand. “My wife did. She’s smarter than me.”
A spark of surprise crosses his face. Then he laughs, shallow and cold. “Interesting. A pity she’s not here to see what happens next.”
Glass erupts in every direction, the windows giving way as if the building itself can’t hold the pressure of what’s about to happen. I throw an arm over my face, feel shards whip past my skin, hear the high cry of metal frames bending. Cold night air floods the chamber, and with it comes the roar of boots and voices. Men in dark gear pour through the openings like a living tide. Their silhouettes blot out the city lights, rifles raised, movements crisp and practiced.
My first thought is to check the angles, to mark every target. I see ten, no, fifteen shapes spilling onto the balcony rail. Some drop straight into the room, others slide down ropes that hiss against fractured glass. They land hard, the thud of combat bootsechoing over the marble floor. A heartbeat later, more figures punch through the opposite windows, the sound of their descent a drumbeat in my ears. The council jerks up from the long table, chairs scraping as they scramble for cover that doesn’t exist. Paperwork scatters like frightened birds.
In the flash of a broken wall sconce I lock eyes with Rifat. He hits the floor in a crouch, rolls, pops up near Grozny’s slumped body, and gives me a single nod. That brief tilt of his chin tells me everything. We are on the same side tonight. He palms a pistol from the ground, chamber checks in a single motion, and fires past my shoulder. A scream follows, cut short as one of Viktor’s guards drops against the paneled wall, head lolling at a wrong angle.
Viktor’s men react, but not fast enough. Four scramble to drag Baranov toward a side exit. Rifat’s team peppers them with controlled bursts. Wood splinters in sharp bursts. One guard stumbles into a pillar, red blooming across his chest. The others shove Baranov behind an overturned buffet, glass decanters crashing and bathing the floor in amber liquor.
I push off my chair and close the space between me and an oncoming attacker. He swings a baton at my skull. I duck, feel the wind of the strike, then drive my shoulder into his ribs. He grunts, air leaving him in a wet rush. I twist, catch his arm, wrench until the baton drops. It clatters across marble. I ram my elbow into his throat.
His eyes go wide, hands pawing at his neck, and he wilts, crumpling to the floor. I don’t wait. I scoop the baton and fling it high and hard. It spins end over end, striking a gunman who is lining up a shot at Rifat. The man’s head snaps sideways. He fires wild, rounds tearing a chandelier cable, the heavy fixture crashing between the council table and the wall.
The room shifts with screams and gunfire. Smoke from the burst lamps mixes with dust and gunpowder. The noise shreds my hearing in waves, each volley a thunder that rattles ribs. Still, I track every movement. Near the entrance, two of Rifat’s men take up a crossfire position, one kneeling, one standing behind. They push Viktor’s guards back step by step, bullets skipping across the parquet.
Off to my left, Viktor remains by the chair he claimed. His coat flares as he draws another pistol. He fires three rapid shots across the chaos, dropping one of Rifat’s newcomers. The man tumbles into a heap of velvet drapes, his weapon skidding from limp fingers. Viktor’s eyes meet mine again, sharp and bright, unfazed by the hurricane of violence. He does not signal his men to fold, does not retreat. He simply watches me, as if measuring how much I will bleed for this room.
I shoulder past a struggling councilor, knock his hand away when he tries to grip my jacket for protection, and charge another guard. The guard swings a knife. The blade whistles past my cheek. I seize his wrist, twist hard, and hear the pop of ligament. The knife drops. I slam his temple against the edge of the council table. Blood spatters the ledger beneath him, dark drops across the paper that still carries the old crest of my family. He slumps. I pull the knife free, pivot, knife in one hand, pistol in the other.
Rifat advances, his movements efficient. He fires short bursts, then darts behind a column of carved oak. He checks above the table, signals left. One of his men lobs a flash-bang over the council heads. The grenade bursts with a searing flash. White light drowns the chamber, then thunder detonates inside every skull. I drop behind the table edge, eyes closed tight. Eventhrough my lids a pulse of white blooms. My ears crackle, pressure popping.
I rise first, trained to recover faster. Viktor’s men stagger, disoriented. I draw a bead on one of them and pull the trigger. The shot feels like glass breaking under my bones. He spins away, collapsing behind an overeager councilor who crawls for cover under the dais.
Viktor levels his gaze at me. He studies the sprawled bodies, the shattered chandeliers, the terrified councilors. Slowly, he holsters his weapon, never taking his eyes from me.
“It seems we have guests,” he says, voice calm as if discussing the weather.
Rifat plants himself between us, barrel aimed low but ready to rise. His eyes flicker to me in silent question, waiting for an order.
I take two measured steps forward, keeping my gun steady. The muzzle points straight at Viktor’s chest. Rifat’s presence between us is a barrier I no longer want. I glance at him, my tone flat.
“Step back, Rifat.”
