Chapter 8 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
I know the smell of blood before it even hits the air.
Nadya moves first. She grabs me by the jacket, yanking me back just as glass shatters over our heads. If she hadn’t moved, if she hadn’t trusted whatever instincts she has tucked under that stubborn, too-proud exterior—
That bullet would’ve been buried in my skull.
I don’t have time to be grateful.
I catch her as she stumbles, my arm locking around her waist, dragging her low, shoving her behind the thickest cover I can reach—one of the heavy marble columns flanking the rooftop bar.
Shots rip through the air again. People scream, scatter, overturning tables and champagne towers, shoes clattering against the stone, glass crunching underfoot.
I press Nadya against the ground, covering her with my body, my hand instinctively shielding the back of her head. Another bullet hits the column above us with a cracking sound, spraying marble dust across my back.
Too close. Too fucking close.
I draw my weapon in one clean motion, the cold weight of it familiar in my hand, steadying the hot rage surging through my veins.
I lift my head just enough to scan the scene. Whoever planned this knew exactly what they were doing.
“Stay here,” I mutter against Nadya’s hair, my voice rough but controlled.
She nods once, wide-eyed but focused. Not sobbing. Not frozen.
Good. She’s tougher than I thought.
I move low and fast, circling behind the bar, using the overturned tables and pillars as cover.
My mind runs cold calculations—fastest exit points, potential backup routes, where my men are likely scrambling to respond.
I catch flashes of familiar faces—Lev shoving guests toward the stairwell, two of my guards returning fire near the service entrance.
I pivot quickly, catching sight of a dark figure across the rooftop, near the remains of the shattered windows.
The gunshot punches through the chaos, the recoil rolling up my arm, but the figure jerks back—hit, or at least thrown off-balance.
I don’t stop to check.
I don’t have time.
Another shot whistles past me, grazing the marble near my shoulder.
I duck, breathing hard, counting the seconds it’ll take before they reload, reposition.
I have maybe thirty seconds to get Nadya out. Maybe less.
I turn back toward her. She’s still crouched behind the column, clutching the side of the marble, her eyes locked on me, trusting me to get her out of this. Trusting me even though I bought her like property. Even though she has every reason to hate me.
That trust sears through me, searing me more than any bullet. I jerk my head in a silent command.
Move.
Now.
She doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles toward me, keeping low, and I grab her hand the second she’s close enough, yanking her behind me, shielding her body with mine as I sprint toward the far stairwell.
Behind us, more shots crack out.
Another window explodes.
Someone screams—high and thin and gut-wrenching—but I don’t look back. There’s no room for hesitation.
I don’t loosen my grip on her hand even once as we sprint across the open rooftop, weaving between fallen chairs, shattered glass, and huddled bodies.
Her fingers are cold but strong in mine, not pulling away, not slowing me down.
Good.
We reach the service stairwell tucked behind the far bar, half hidden by a wall of ivy planters. I shove the door open with my shoulder, the heavy metal frame groaning on its hinges.
Inside, it’s dim and narrow, concrete walls closing in tight, the emergency lights flickering faintly overhead.
“Move,” I grunt, pushing her ahead of me.
Nadya doesn’t argue. She barrels down the stairs two steps at a time, breathing hard but controlled, her hand skimming the wall for balance.
Every second ticks like a hammer against my skull.
I glance back once, my gun raised, but no one follows yet. Doesn’t mean they won’t.
I catch up to her halfway down and grab her by the arm again, steering her harder now, faster.
We hit the second floor landing, the noise from the rooftop already muffled behind the heavy fire doors.
I yank open another door, dragging her inside a small maintenance hallway lined with storage closets and emergency supplies.
It’s empty. Silent.
Safe—for now.
I shove her gently but firmly against the wall, one hand still on her arm, the other gripping my weapon.
“Stay here,” I say, my voice low and deadly calm.
Her chest rises and falls fast, her eyes wide as they lock onto mine. There’s fear there—real, sharp fear—but also something else. Anger. Defiance.
Good.
She’s still thinking. Still alive.
“Konstantin,” she whispers, and I can hear it—the shake in her voice she’s trying to hide.
I lean in closer, my forehead nearly touching hers, my hand sliding down her arm to grip her wrist.
“Listen to me,” I rasp. “You don’t move unless I come back for you. You don’t make a sound. You don’t trust anyone but me. Not Lev. Not the guards. No one.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I linger one more second, the pull between us almost physical, almost unbearable.
But there’s no time for it.
I tear myself away, locking the door behind me with a security key ripped from a dead guard’s badge.
I move fast through the service halls, clearing each corner with my gun raised, my back brushing against cold concrete walls, my ears tuned to every shift of air, every scuff of shoe against tile.
Only empty corridors and the fading echo of chaos upstairs.
I round a corner just as Lev bursts into the hallway from the stairwell, a pistol gripped in his hand, his tie half-ripped, blood splattered across his shirt that isn’t his own.
His chest heaves once, twice, and then he locks onto me. “Boss,” he grunts, jogging the few steps between us.
“Report,” I snap.
“Guests evacuated,” he says, breathing hard. “No bodies found yet. Sniper’s nest empty. Looks like whoever it was packed up the second they fired.”
I curse under my breath, my hand flexing around the grip of my weapon.
“No one saw them leave?” I ask.
Lev shakes his head grimly. “Not a single damn thing. We’re checking hotel security feeds, but someone jammed half the cameras ten minutes before the first shot.”
Of course they did. Whoever pulled this off wasn’t an amateur looking to make a name.
They were professionals.
“You said ‘they,’” I mutter, keeping my voice low even though the hallway is deserted. “But you didn’t see any signs of multiple shooters, did you?”
Lev hesitates for half a second too long.
“No,” he says finally. “No confirmed secondary shooter.”
The knot tightens in my gut. This was aimed at one man.
Me.
I come to a slow stop in the middle of the hallway, my mind running backward, replaying the angles, the shots, the pattern of fire.
Every bullet had been aimed at the stage. At me. At Nadya, when she got too close.
No one else.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, my fist clenching tight at my side.
“They were only aiming at me,” I say slowly.
Lev frowns. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I snap. “No stray bullets. No random guests hit. They weren’t spraying. They were hunting. Me.”
This was personal. And the list of people who have both the motive and the resources to pull something like this off at my own wedding?
It’s a short fucking list.
My fists clench tighter.
Lev sees it instantly. His mouth tightens, his hand tightening on his gun, waiting for my call.
“It’s him,” I say, my voice low, cold enough to burn.
Lev doesn’t ask who. He knows. I can see it written in the grim set of his mouth, the slight dip of his head.
My father.
The man who spent my entire life treating me like an inconvenient reminder of his own sins.
The man who, five minutes ago, was standing on the rooftop playing the part of proud father while barely masking his disdain.
I feel the fury coil in my chest, poisonous, spiking hotter with every breath.
I trusted him not to show up. I trusted him to ignore me the way he always has. Instead, he came. Dmitry Buryakov always finds a new way to surprise me.
And tonight, under the perfect sky, surrounded by his empire, he tried to erase me for good.
Lev falls into step beside me, checking corners as we move down the empty maintenance corridor. His movements are tight, professional, but there’s a grim edge to the way he grips his weapon now. The same realization burning through me is written all over his face.
“Maybe he feels threatened,” Lev mutters after a beat, keeping his voice low. “Your marriage to Nadya—it might be a bigger deal than we thought.”
I grunt, not bothering to hide my disgust. “I told you,” I say. “These old bastards believe in Bratva purity. Bloodlines. Loyalty to the name. They don’t like seeing someone outside the official family line rise too high. Makes them nervous.”
Lev chuckles dryly under his breath, no real humor in it. “So what next?” he says, casting a glance at me. “You gonna create an heir with her? Really piss him off?”
I stiffen, my gaze snapping to him before I can school it.
Lev notices immediately, his mouth twitching in something that might have been a smirk under other circumstances. But he’s smart enough not to push.
I don’t answer. Not out loud.
We take the stairwell two at a time, our boots pounding the metal steps as we descend, and for the first time in years, my heart isn’t calm.
Because the thought has crossed my mind more than once—the idea of securing my claim in blood, tying Nadya to me permanently in the oldest, most undeniable way possible.
But this isn’t the time for that.
The memory flashes through me again—
Nadya’s hand grabbing my jacket, yanking me back hard just before the shot cracked through the air. Her body between mine and the blast zone without hesitation. I don’t know what that was.
Instinct?
Training?
We reach the hallway door and I’m already unlocking it, breath held in my chest like a loaded chamber.
Lev is watching me but says nothing. He can see it. He’s known me long enough.
Nadya’s still pressed against the far wall of the narrow corridor, her arms wrapped tight around her middle, her eyes wide and searching the second we step in.
Relief crashes into me so hard it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. I lower my gun without thinking, stepping inside, closing the distance in three long strides before she can even say my name.
I don’t touch her.
I want to—but I don’t.
Because if I do, I’m afraid something inside me might break wide open, and I won’t be able to close it again.
Her eyes find mine, and whatever fear was there melts into something else. Something I can’t name but feel like I’ve been chasing in the dark.
I swallow hard. “We’re getting you out,” I say quietly, nodding at Lev who stands guard by the door. “Now.”
She doesn’t argue. Just follows, falling into step beside me like she belongs there, as if her place has always been at my side—even if neither of us would admit it out loud.
We take the stairs this time, fast but careful, sweeping each landing before moving.
The hotel has fallen eerily silent now, like the attack sucked the oxygen out of the walls.
No more gunfire. No more screams. Just the low hum of emergency lights and the distant echo of voices trying to recover from shock.
We reach the ground floor through a back stairwell that opens near the parking structure. My guards are already sweeping the area, radios crackling with clipped orders. The SUVs are ready, engines humming, doors open, routes cleared.
But just as we step through the last set of doors and into the open corridor, we nearly collide with someone rounding the far corner.
Alexei.
His jacket is half-unbuttoned, and there’s a thin cut above his eye, bleeding in a line down his temple. He looks pale—more shaken than I’ve ever seen him—and for a second, he just stops, staring at us.
At Nadya. Then at me.
“You’re okay,” he says finally, his voice rougher than usual, like it scraped its way out of his throat. “They said you might’ve been hit.”
I nod once, brief. “Close call.”
Alexei’s eyes drift toward Nadya, and for a moment I catch something flicker behind them—relief, maybe, or something else he doesn’t let rise all the way to the surface.
“You?” he asks her, a little softer.
“I’m fine,” Nadya answers, her voice steady despite how pale she is. “You?”
Alexei exhales slowly. “Could’ve been worse. My mother’s hysterical.”
I nod again. “And my father?”
His expression flickers again. This time, something tightens behind his eyes.
“Alive,” he says. “Pissed. Yelling at everyone like they planned the attack themselves.”
I don’t respond to that. I don’t trust what might come out if I open my mouth.
Instead, I watch Alexei study me. Then Nadya. Then me again.
He looks tired in a way I rarely see—like whatever mask he usually wears slipped during the gunfire and he hasn’t had time to pull it back on yet.
“They were aiming for you,” he says, quieter now. “Only you.”
I don’t answer. He already knows I know.
Alexei’s gaze holds mine for another long second. And this time, he doesn’t look like my little brother. He looks like a man who’s seen enough death tonight to realize nothing about our world is stable.
“I’ll check in later,” he says finally, stepping back. “You should get her out of here.”
I nod again, more slowly this time.
Before turning away, he looks at Nadya once more, offering her a tired, genuine kind of smile. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says.
She hesitates, then nods, her voice quiet. “Thanks.”
And then he’s gone—vanishing down the opposite corridor like a shadow fading into the concrete.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and push through the exit doors with Nadya still tucked close to my side.
Only after the cold night air hits my face do I let my guard loosen.
Only then does the question rise to the surface and refuse to be swallowed.
I stop walking.
Nadya turns to look at me, brow creasing, confused by the sudden pause.
And I say it. “How did you do that?” My voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it.
Her shoulders stiffen slightly. “Do what?”
“You moved before the first shot,” I say, studying her closely now. “You grabbed me, pulled me down—like you knew exactly where it was coming from.”
I take a step closer.
“That wasn’t panic,” I add.
She looks at me for a moment, her mouth a tight line. I don’t know if she’s going to lie, deflect, or run.
But whatever she says next—
It’ll tell me more about who she really is than anything else that’s come before.