6. Damir #2
I should leave. I have made the point. The alliance is publicly shaken. Sergei is humiliated. Sokolov is furious. Every family here has seen that an invitation bearing my name reached me despite all their careful control.
That should be enough.
Then the crowd shifts. Only slightly. One of Sergei’s men steps sideways, looking toward the aisle instead of the altar, and through the narrow opening between shoulders, I see Sofia again.
She’s still at the end of the aisle. Still in white. Still holding Dmitri’s hand.
But she’s not looking at the guns.
She’s looking at me.
Her face is pale, but not with terror. Her eyes are wide, bright, fixed on mine with the strangest expression I have ever seen on a bride surrounded by armed men at her own wedding.
The thought settles into place.
Sofia Antonova invited me into the middle of this church. Not because she expected rescue. I don’t think she believes in rescue. Girls raised by men like Sergei learn early that rescue is usually another form of ownership.
No, she invited me because she wanted a crack in the wall.
And I am very good at making cracks wider.
Dmitri notices where I’m looking. His hand tightens around hers.
That’s when Sofia moves.
It’s almost nothing at first. A shift of her weight.
A turn of her wrist inside Dmitri’s grip.
Her head tilts slightly as if she’s reacting to the chaos around us, but I see the calculation.
I see her take the half step back while every man in the church looks at me.
I see her glance toward the side passage near the choir stalls.
Smart girl.
Then a shot cracks through the church. The sound is deafening.
A woman screams as one of my men, Anton, jerks backward near the left aisle, blood blooming dark across his shoulder.
For half a second, the entire room freezes around the impossible fact that someone has actually fired inside a church.
Then hell opens.
Men shout. More gunshots erupt. Guests collapse between pews, dragging one another down.
The minister drops behind the altar. Stained glass shudders above us as a bullet strikes stone nearby.
My men return fire with discipline; Sergei’s men don’t.
The Sokolovs are worse, too eager, too loud, shooting more from panic than command.
“Anton!” Mikhail snaps.
“He’s alive,” Lev shouts, dragging him behind a pew.
I look for Sofia, but she is gone.
Dmitri realizes it at the same moment. He spins, sees the empty space beside him, and for the first time since I entered, true panic cuts through his face.
“Sofia!”
He moves toward the side passage.
So do I.
Mikhail catches my arm. “Boss.”
“Handle this.”
His eyes flash. “Damir—”
“Handle it.”
He releases me because he knows better than to waste another second.
I move down the aisle through smoke, screams, and overturned flowers. A Sokolov soldier steps into my path with a gun halfway raised. I break his wrist before he can aim properly and drive my elbow into his throat. He drops hard against the pew, choking.
Dmitri reaches the side passage first. I reach him before he clears it.
He turns, face twisted with fury. “She is mine.”
That word makes the decision for me.
Mine.
I hit him with the flat, brutal satisfaction of my fist connecting with his mouth before he finishes drawing breath for the next stupid sentence. His head snaps to the side. Blood marks his teeth immediately. He staggers, catches himself against the wall, and reaches for the gun beneath his jacket.
I step in and hit him again, harder. This time he goes down.
I don’t wait to see whether he stays there.
The side passage is narrow, lined with old stone and small candles trembling in red glass holders. The noise of the church dulls behind me but doesn’t disappear. It follows through the corridor in flashes: gunfire, shouts, a woman sobbing, Mikhail barking orders above it all.
Ahead, a white veil disappears around the corner.
I move faster.
She runs well for a woman in a wedding dress, I will give her that.
She has gathered the front of the skirt in both hands, veil half-loose, pearls flashing at her cuffs as she hurries toward a side exit.
One shoe is already gone. The other clicks unevenly against the stone.
Her hair is slipping from its careful pins, dark waves falling around her face.
She reaches the outer vestibule and shoves at the side door. It sticks.
She curses. Beautifully. Then she tries again, harder.
“Sofia.”
She goes still.
Only for a second.
Then she throws her shoulder against the door with the desperate determination of a woman who has decided being crushed by old architecture is preferable to being caught.
I cross the space before she can try a third time. My hand closes around her waist, and I pull her back. She gasps, twisting instantly, one elbow coming toward my ribs with enough force to prove she has either been taught badly or learned violence by paying attention.
I catch her wrist. She fights me anyway.
Good.
I drag her away from the door and turn her against the wall, not gently, but carefully enough that her head doesn’t strike stone. Her back meets the old plaster. Her breath hits my face. Her veil slips further, trapping one side of her face in white lace.
For the first time, we are close.
Too close.
Close enough for me to see the tiny pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. Close enough to smell roses in her hair and champagne beneath it. Close enough to feel the heat of her body through white silk and lace.
My hand is still at her waist. Her wrist is still caught in my other hand. Her chest rises against mine with each sharp breath.
Something dark and immediate moves through me.
Inappropriate. Unwelcome.
Undeniable.
My body hardens with a speed that would be irritating if it were not so absolute. Of all the places for desire to make itself known, the side corridor of a church currently filling with gunfire is not the one I would have chosen.
Sofia notices. Her eyes widen, then drop for the briefest second before snapping back to my face. A flush climbs her throat. Not fear. Not entirely.
“Where,” I ask quietly, “do you think you’re going?”
Her breath shakes. “Out.”
I almost smile. “Clearly.”
“You should try it,” she snaps. “There are bullets inside.”
“There are bullets outside too.”
“At least outside has air.”
A laugh nearly escapes me.
Nothing about this should amuse me. Not the ruined wedding. Not the invitation. Not the blood on the church floor. Not this furious bride pressed between my body and a wall while half the city’s criminal hierarchy tries to decide whether to shoot one another under stained glass.
And yet. There is something magnificent about her nerve.