Page 75 of Of Murder and Matrimony

I believed him. He was a good marksman, and a headshot from less than ten feet away, even in a darkened kitchen, wouldn’t be a challenge for him. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“Olesya, no.” Dante tried to grab me again, but I backed away. His face was tortured and angry, but he was helpless without a weapon. Even then, he may not have time to act.

“I have to,” I told him, hoping he would understand. “I won’t let him kill you.”

Yuri held his hand out, and I placed my palm in his. As soon as I stood beside him, he dropped the gun and pulled the trigger, shooting Dante in the leg. My shriek melded with Dante’s cry of pain as he fell to the floor, blood quickly making his black pants shine in the dim light.

“Fuck, Yuri!” I yelled, punching my brother in the arm. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!”

I lunged forward, trying to rush to Dante’s side, but Yuri tugged me back forcefully. “I agreed not to kill him. And he won’t die if he gets help. Come along. The faster we leave, the faster he can find a doctor.”

“I am a doctor, you asshole!” I punched him again, shaking my hand in pain when his muscles didn’t give.

“Not right now, you’re not.” Yuri pulled me toward the back door, gripping my arm like an iron manacle.

I looked over my shoulder, where Dante grimaced on the floor and struggled to get to his feet. “Grab a kitchen towel and hold pressure on the wound! Don’t try to get up. Take care of yourself before you come for me. I’m serious, Dante!”

He nodded and grabbed a hand towel, wadding it and hissing as he pressed it to his thigh. Dante’s face was murderous as he glared at Yuri’s retreating back. He called out, strength in his threat. “I’ll raze the fucking city to the ground to get her back, Zolotov!”

His pained eyes met mine, and his expression softened. “I love you, mia piccola fantasma. I’ll come for you.”

He crossed his bloody hand over his heart, leaving a red x on his bare skin, then blew me a kiss. I held onto the door frame with my free hand, desperate for one last look.

“I love you, too, Dante!” I called out before Yuri grabbed me around the waist and tossed me over his shoulder.

I pounded on my brother’s back with all my force, screaming as tears fell to the ground, hoping somebody would hear me and come to help. My cries were futile. It was like the entire estate was empty, not a guard to be seen. Another bolt of fear shot through me when I considered what had happened to the guards—to Diego. Yuri tossed me into the back seat of a car, tied my hands behind my back, and buckled me in.

“I’ll never forgive you for this!” I screeched, thrashing against the seatbelt.

He misunderstood me. “It’s for your own safety. I’ll untie you when we get home.”

He rushed to the driver’s side, and we sped off into the night, across a town where nobody would look twice at a frantic woman screaming for help in the backseat of a luxury car.

Dante.

My husband would come for me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Neretti men swarmed the premises, searching every room of the house and every inch of the property. I knew it was useless; the Russians got what they came for— my wife.

It took me precious minutes to get myself off the floor and to the phone to sound the alarm, and now I sat, wearing a fucking hospital gown, on an exam table in Olesya’s clinic, only it wasn’t my wife tending to my leg. Stefano called Dr. Messina in, and the old man liked to take his sweet time. He hovered over my bare, bloody leg, poking and prodding at the wounds.

“Your muscles must be made of steel,” Dr. Messina muttered. He pointed to the hole in my thigh. “The bullet entered here, grazed the muscle, and exited here.”

He tapped next to the exit wound and shook his head. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Wonderful. I’m a medical marvel,” I said flatly. “Just patch me up. I have shit to do.”

“I’ll get it cleaned out and put sutures in,” he explained, searching the cupboards along the wall until he found the necessary supplies. “You’ll have a nasty bruise for a while. I can give you something for the pain.”

I didn’t protest. There was no use arguing with someone who thought they knew better than the rest of the world. I pressed my lips together as he numbed the wounds, then cleaned and stitched them closed. My thigh still felt like it was on fire when I pushed myself off the exam table.

“Stitches can come out in a week,” Dr. Messina advised as he washed his hands. “I can stop by—”

“My wife will remove them,” I gritted out, suppressing a pained groan as I took a step. Fuck, getting shot hurt like a bitch.

The doctor’s face twisted with disdain, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, gathering his bag and nodding as he left. I grabbed the suit Filippo brought me and closed the curtain so my men wouldn’t see my struggle as I dressed. Sweat coated my brow by the time I finished tying my Italian leather dress shoes, and I wiped it away before opening the curtain and walking stiffly to the door.

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