Page 89 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Excellent,” I say. “Sign.”

Demyan moves forward and presses the pen into his limp hand. My crew stays close as Rob limps to the table.

He looks at the paper for a long time before he brings his pen down on the dotted line. His signature is lackluster and half-hearted. But it’s recognizable, and that’s all I need.

“Don Makarova,” the priest says. “Your turn.”

I take the pen and scribble across the space set out for the groom, then drop it with a clatter back to the tabletop.

“Now, the bride.”

“Stop calling me that,” Olivia snaps. She steps up with gusto—but when she’s at the precipice, she hesitates.

She gazes at the pen like it’s a snake. Three, four, five times, she reaches out to pick it up but pulls back at the last moment.

“Tick tock,” I say softly.

She glances over her shoulder towards me. Breathes me in like she’s taking in her future.

Then, steeling her posture, she turns and scrawls hurriedly across the space marked out for her.

“Is it done?” she asks. Her eyes are closed, as if that will change anything. Like not seeing will mean none of this is real.

“I will file the papers,” the priest says, barely audible. “Then, yes, it is legally binding.”

She winces, then turns to me. “Can I have a moment alone with my brother?”

“No.”

I’ve already turned away from her when she grabs my arm and tries to rip me back around. When she doesn’t succeed, she runs around and blocks my path.

“You got everything you wanted,” she points out. “He’s unarmed and surrounded by your men. All I’m asking for is a minute.”

“Try crying,” I suggest. “See how much that moves me.”

She shakes her head in dismay. “Does it make you feel good to be so cruel?”

“No. It makes me feel powerful.” I glance towards Demyan. “Take her.”

He grabs Olivia. She kicks and screams as he drags her out the front. A minute later, her screams are cut in half when he tosses her in a jeep and slams the door closed.

I turn back to her brother. After one look from me, my men release him, though they don’t go far.

He falls to one knee without their support, one palm flat on the floor the only difference between staying upright and collapsing completely.

His weakness, his pain, his fear—I can see and smell it all on him. Another mistake I’d have never made.

Never allow your enemies to see just how much they’ve got to you.

“We’re family now, Lawrence,” I tell him quietly. “You go after me, you go after your sister. We’re one and the same.”

His eyes flash with ferocity as he turns his face up toward me. “You are not the fucking same. She is better than you in every way.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“She’s kind, and loving, and patient,” he breathes. “She is the best of us. If you hurt one hair on her head, I’m going to take your life one day. And by God, I will make it hurt.”

I smile. Like recognizes like, and I sense a kindred spirit here, albeit a misguided one. “I look forward to that day, Agent Lawrence.”

Then I turn and head for the door.

“Makarova!”

I glance back towards him.

“Just don’t… don’t hurt her.”

There’s no anger or threat in his tone when he makes his appeal. He’s acting with nothing but pure fear for his sister.

I meet his eyes for a moment. Then I turn and resume my walk out. Just before I go, I call over my shoulder, “Unfortunately for my new bride, I’m not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.”

---