Chapter 47
Alexei
The glass explodes inward in a spray of deadly shards. I’m already moving before the first bullet punches through, my hand dropping to my holster. The gun slides free, the weight familiar in my palm as shrieks erupt around me.
My training takes over.
Assess. Identify. Neutralize.
Three men in black tactical gear pour through the shattered storefront with covered faces and raised weapons.
More filter in behind them.
Where the fuck is Aurora?
She disappeared behind that partition wall on the far side of the gallery just minutes ago. I push through frantic bodies, gun poised.
People scatter like startled birds, knocking into displays and trampling broken glass. An elderly woman in pearls falls in front of me, but I don’t pause to help.
Aurora. She’s my priority.
Kolya materializes and crouches beside the woman, assuaging the niggling guilt in the back of my mind.
I continue moving.
“Down! Everyone down!” Bodies plummet to the floor as everyone scrambles to obey Kirill’s order.
The attackers fan out, firing controlled bursts into the walls and crowd. They’re hunting. One swings his weapon toward me. I drop to one knee and fire twice.
Center mass. He collapses to the floor.
My ears ring from the shots, but I don’t stop moving.
Aurora is somewhere in this mass of bodies, unprotected and vulnerable. Renewed urgency drives me forward.
Another attacker spots me. He pivots and aims. A bullet hits him from behind before he can pull the trigger. The man crumples, revealing Max’s emotionless face. He nods to me, then turns to engage another threat.
I reach the partition, heart hammering against my ribs as I search for Aurora.
She’s not here.
Panic claws at my throat as I scan the area. Overturned display pedestals, shattered artwork, a trail of blood droplets leading toward—
There.
Behind the next wall.
I catch a flash of emerald fabric as she scrambles on hands and knees away from the main fighting.
Smart girl. Getting to cover.
I stay low, concealing myself behind the maze of partition walls. “Aurora!”
Another assailant appears at the end of the row. I fire without hesitation.
He jerks backward, gun clattering to the floor as he crumples.
Aurora’s head whips around, eyes wide with terror. Still, she’s conscious. She’s alive.
The instant surge of relief almost causes me to stumble.
“Alexei!” She scrambles toward me, dress hiked up around her knees and one heel missing.
I grab her arm and shove her behind me as I scan for immediate threats. “You okay?”
“Yes. What about—”
“Good.” I tug her with me. “This way.”
We hurry toward the massive bar in the center of the gallery, a stone island fortress in a sea of glass and drywall. I push her down behind the bar, shielding her as bullets chip the marble above us.
“Stay down.” I press into her shoulder, ensuring she’s as low as possible. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
Despite her panicked gasps, she nods. She trusts me, and I don’t take that lightly.
I don’t deserve her faith in me, but I’ll die before I betray it.
Screams from the main gallery redirect my attention back to the fight. I peer over the edge of the bar. Five visible attackers, all in black, wield the same weapons.
Tactical formation.
This isn’t some random hit. This is a professional job.
Across the room, Roman backs up to a column, firing with methodical precision. Two bodies sprawl at his feet, blood pooling from their heads. Vitaly covers his flank, a cold, stony smile on his face. Kirill waits near the emergency exit, picking off any enemy who tries to escape that way.
Vanya darts between overturned displays. He appears behind an attacker and slits his throat. When I blink, he’s vanished again.
I squeeze Aurora’s shoulder once more, then rise to a crouch. “Stay here.”
“Don’t leave me.” Her fingers claw at my wrist, nails biting deep enough to draw blood.
“I have to help them.” I pry her fingers loose, then give her a quick kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
Before she can protest, I slip around the end of the bar, gun raised. An attacker spots me and swings his weapon in my direction.
I fire first.
His head snaps back, a spray of red misting the white wall behind him.
The gallery has emptied of civilians. Around scattered, unmoving bodies, my family and our assailants face off in a deadly dance. Bullets fly. People shout.
I catch Kolya’s eye from across the room. With a jerk of my chin, I indicate the left flank.
He nods.
We move together, converging on the three remaining attackers from different angles. Caught in our crossfire, they don’t stand a chance. The last one falls with Kirill’s bullet in his throat, gurgling as he dies.
Silence descends. No more gunfire. No more screams. Just the ringing in my ears and the harsh breathing of survivors.
Roman calls from the back of the room. “Clear?”
Vanya emerges from behind an overturned display case, blood spattered across his face like abstract art. “Clear.”
“Perimeter secure.” Kirill’s flat affect never changes, even as he stands over the men he’s killed.
I holster my weapon and scan the room again.
Seven attackers down.
All of us still standing.
The Bratva anyway. The civilians fled. They weren’t the targets, so few of them suffered injuries.
The gallery, though, is in ruins, much of the artwork destroyed. Blood pools on the polished hardwood floor.
My gaze slides to the marble bar where I left Aurora.
I find her in the same spot, curled into a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her knees. She flinches when I touch her shoulder, then launches herself at me, flinging her arms around my neck.
“It’s over, lyubimaya.” I stroke her back, a dull ache filling my chest. “You’re safe.”
She clings to me, trembling until her teeth chatter. I hold her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed against her spine.
“The gallery. The pieces.” Her eyes brim with tears. “They’re all ruined.”
“Fuck the art.” I pull back just enough to see her face. “Are you hurt?”
She blinks, confused, as if she can’t comprehend the question. Then she glances down at her left arm, at the blood running down from a long gash just below her shoulder. “Oh.”
Glass, not a bullet.
Bleeding, but not life-threatening. I tear a strip from the bottom of her dress and cinch it around the wound. A field dressing will have to do for now.
“Come on.” I help her to her feet, locking my arm around her waist as we emerge from behind the bar.
Organized chaos greets us.
In the center of the gallery, Roman rattles off rapid-fire Russian into his phone. My father and Irina are nowhere to be seen. Evacuated by security, most likely. The rest of the Kozlovs move with purpose, securing weapons, checking bodies, assessing damage.
Kolya crouches beside one of the fallen attackers to examine his weapon. He glances up as we approach. “Vityaz-SNs. Reznik’s favorite toys.”
The name pierces me with arctic cold. Ilya Reznik. The man Roman said I’d pissed off. Was this my fault?
Vanya appears at my elbow, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief that was probably white once. “I know this piece of shit.” He nudges one of the bodies with the toe of his black leather shoe. “Ivan Petrov. Ilya Reznik made a big show of firing him last week. Wonder why.”
Kirill joins us. He squats, frisks Petrov’s lifeless body, and extracts an item from the dead man’s pocket. A dark green gambling chip.
He holds up the small piece, turning it so the light catches the carved surface. “From Ilya’s private games table.”
The evidence is overwhelming. A known Reznik enforcer, recently “fired” in an obvious cover-up. Reznik’s signature weapons. A token from their private gambling den.
It’s too perfect. Too neat.
Someone staged this scene.
A body across the room draws my eye. The one who came closest to Aurora. The one who almost—
I cross over to him, kneeling beside his corpse. He’s face down, blood pooling beneath him. I roll him over with one hand, then search his pockets. Wallet. Keys. Phone. My fingers close around a metallic object, familiar in shape and weight. I pull it out and stare.
A silver Zippo lighter engraved with a single elegant tulip.
An invisible hand clasps my throat and squeezes.
Chyort vozmi.
The image matches the tattoo he and I got to honor our late mother.
MJ’s lighter. The one he always carried. The one that was missing when I received his personal effects after his alleged “suicide.”
“How the fuck—”
A small sound behind me catches my attention. I spin to find Aurora trembling, her arms wrapped around herself.
“Alexei. Gio was here.”
I raise my head, a terrible suspicion forming. “What did you say?”
“He was here.” The words tumble out of her, fast and frantic. “At the g-gallery. He said I shouldn’t have talked. He wanted me to go outside. I didn’t…want to go…outside. I don’t…like him.” Her breath hitches. “I managed to slip away when the shooting started…but he was here.”
I rise to my feet, clutching the lighter so tightly that the edges bite into my palm. “Where? Where is he?”
She shakes her head, wild-eyed. “I don’t know. He disappeared…when the windows broke. Maybe he got out. I…don’t know.”
Blood drips down her arm, soaking through my hasty bandage. The sight of her injury cuts through my rage, helping me stay rooted in the present.
“It’s okay.” I gather her into my arms and cradle her against my chest, resting my chin on the top of her head. “You’re safe now. I’ll deal with him.”
She clings to me, her fingers digging into my back through my jacket. I sense the second her adrenaline crashes because her body starts sagging against mine. Adjusting my grip, I support more of her weight as I guide her to a bench that somehow survived the destruction.
I kneel in front of her and check the makeshift dressing on her arm. The bleeding has slowed but hasn’t stopped. I tear another strip from her dress, wrap it around the original bandage, and tie it in place.
“Samantha.” Aurora’s eyes widen as if she’s just remembering her sister. When she tries to get up, I grasp her elbow. “I need to go. He said there were men at her dorm. He said—”
“He lied. Samantha’s safe. If anyone gets near her, my men will alert me.” I squeeze her hand, forcing her to focus on me. “No one will hurt her.”
Fresh tears—triggered by relief this time rather than terror—well in her eyes. She slumps and rests her forehead against my shoulder. “Thank you.”
I hold her, one hand stroking her back, the other applying pressure on her wound. Around us, the gallery’s in ruins. Broken glass, splintered wood, shattered artwork. Blood soaks into the floor and walls. Bodies cool where they fell.
And among all the wreckage, there’s this brave fucking woman. My wife. Shaken up, but a survivor. Like the pieces she uses in her art. The violence has transformed her, but she’s still beautiful and complete in the ways that matter.
I lift my head as heavy footsteps approach. Roman joins us, holstering his gun as he surveys the destruction.
His eyes narrow when they land on Aurora curled against my chest. “The police are three minutes out. Vanya will handle them.” His gaze shifts to the lighter still clutched in my fist. “What’s that?”
“MJ’s lighter.” The words come out raspy.
Recognition flickers in my uncle’s calculating eyes. “Where did you find it?”
I nod toward the body. “His pocket.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “We’ll deal with that later.” He addresses Aurora, who has finally stopped trembling. “You said Gio Falcone was here?”
She nods without lifting her head from my shoulder.
“You know Gio?” Roman’s voice is neutral.
She nods again.
Roman glances between us, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Better tell me everything.” Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with each second. “But take care of your wife first, Alexei. I’ll handle this.” He moves away, already barking orders to the others.
I guide Aurora to her feet, keeping my arm around her waist. She leans into me, exhausted, wounded, but alive.
I press my lips to her temple, soaking in the contact. “Let’s get you home.”
Together, we weave through the ruins of her first art show, leaving the dead behind us.