Page 79 of Pretty Little Game

The men raise their guns immediately, taking aim, but there are too many people for them to find a target. Most of the body surface visible belongs to their own men. They switch targets, shifting again and again, never landing on one person long enough to pull the trigger.

Then Lucca, wielding two knives, makes a single scissor cut that slits the throat of his current rival, toppling the man backward as he issues a final gurgling breath. For a single, heart-stopping moment, my brother’s entirely exposed.

One of the men waiting between him and Ellie levels the gun at my brother’s chest, and Ellie screams in dismay. But Lucca’s not looking at the gun. He’s not even looking at the man in his way. His eyes are laser-focused on his girl as he crouches, catlike, in an instant and lunges for the guy’s knees.

The man’s gun discharges randomly, sending a bullet into one of his own men’s backs. Then he’s on the ground, Lucca opening knife-sized punctures all the way up his body with wicked speed.

Ilya steps forward, catching the final guard’s wrist and bringing the man’s elbow down onto his knee, snapping it. The man screams, his fingers going slack and releasing his gun as he loses function in those digits.

Bianka’s brother snatches the weapon and presses it beneath the guy’s chin, pointing up at the ceiling. He discharges a single shot, and the man crumples to the floor.

The battle’s over in an instant, the Matron’s men lying lifeless in pools of blood. Two more of Ilya’s men–brawny guys with full beards–stand over their victims, gore dripping from their hands.

Only Lucca moves as he cuts Ellie free, dragging her away from the Matron and into his arms a moment later. Intense relief floods me to finally see her safe. My twin tucks his girl protectively under his arm, and then everyone’s eyes are on me.

“Take one step, and I’ll cut his throat from ear to ear,” the Matron says quietly.

No one makes a sound aside from the labored breathing after the intense workout my brothers, Ilya, and their men just received. Down the hallway, issue the muffled confirmations of cleared rooms in English, some my brother’s men, some with Russian accents.

Victory is ours, aside from the possibility that I might become this woman’s casualty.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking cunt,” Nicolo spits. “Give me my brother. Now.”

“If you want to kill me, you’ll have to kill him first,” she says, snuggling her cheek against mine playfully.

“Ugh,” I groan, leaning away from her in disgust, and her nails dig deeper into my scalp as a reward.

“Wait, I know you,” Ilya says, recognition lighting his eyes. “You were at my father’s funeral.” His voice turns dark, menacing. I imagine Bianka’s told him everything we know by now, so he’s probably aware that this is the Matron, but Ilya seems not to know her personally–even if she’s somehow connected to the Bratva he was at war with.

The Matron gives a delighted cackle, jerking my head back further, so I catch a glimpse of her sneer. “Yes, that was supposed to be my nephew’s grand victory–killingValentin Popov, Chicago’s most merciless Bratva leader. Pasha’s the one who thought he could wipe out the Shulaya within a year, the fool. But thenyoushowed up and gave him a run for his money. I must admit, if I didn’t despise you on principle for what you’ve done, I could almost admire you. My nephew didn’t anticipate you having a savvy military strategy and a knack for leadership when you were so young. Not when your father’s men had a reputation for sniffing out weakness as an excuse for rebellion.”

“Pasha Petrov was your nephew?” Ilya growls, disregarding her slight against his men as his hackles rise. “And you dared to attend my father’s funeral? Why? Why start our war in the first place?” he demands.

The Matron releases a soft chuckle. “I enjoy little more than watching men who think they’re invincible laid low. And what’s lower than six feet underground?” she says wickedly. “Besides, I couldn’t very well have my brothers’ half-wit sons tromping all over my territory. They would ruin everything. I’d have nothing to pass along to my son. Infiltrating Chicago was Pasha’s brilliant plan to branch out from the family, start a sister operation–take over your territory. But he and Dimitri screwed it up every chance they had. Got a lot of my men killed, too, because neither had a lick of sense.”

Ilya raises an ironic eyebrow, looking pointedly down at the dead men piled on the floor, but the Matron doesn’t seem to pick up on the subtle communication. Instead, she continues on her brazen rant about her nephews.

“No, I had to coach themevery step of the way, and still, they managed to get themselves killed!” The Matron sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, and her tone turns playful as she slowly drags the tip of her knife along my throat, making my skin prickle eerily.

“But now I can see you like playing dirty, don’t you? Getting the Marchettis involved so you can team up on me?” She tsks lightly. “I think you might have overplayed your hand, Ilya Popov.”

Her head turns slightly, her body shifting to indicate the change in her gaze as she looks at my older brother. “I’ll tell you what, Nicolo Marchetti. I will give you your brother back. Gladly. If you’ll shoot Ilya for me.”

The three Russians tense, Ilya’s eyes narrowing as he turns them on Nico suspiciously. My brother still holds his gun loosely at his side, ready for use but not aimed to avoid antagonizing the woman with a blade to my throat.

But Ilya has a gun too, the one he took from the final guard, and he grips it firmly, ready for anything. For an instant, no one dares to breathe. Even the Matron stills behind me, her hand holding the knife, almost quivering with anticipation.

“Don’t do it, Nico–” I warn, my words ending in a hiss as the Matron’s sharp blade leaves my throat momentarily to flick across my cheek.

I instinctively jerk away from the pain, turning my chin, then freeze as the cool metal rests again against my throat. My cheek lights on fire along the thin line she drew, and the creeping sensation of blood trickling down my face follows a moment later.

“You fucking bitch,” Nico rasps, his fists balling as he takes a step forward.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the Matron croons, pressing the blade more firmly against my throat until I inhale sharply.

Nico freezes, and beside him, Lucca pales visibly. Poor Ellie looks on the verge of fainting; she’s so shaken, her eyes wide with fear.

“You know,” Nico drawls, forcing his body back into a more casual stance. “I recognize you too. You’re a member of that New York Bratva known as the Veles.”

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