Chapter 27
VIKTOR
“You sure this is going to work?” Sergei murmurs to me. “What’s stopping this kid from double-crossing us?”
“Fear of his life, I suspect,” I say back. “He knows he’s dead if doesn’t follow through.”
“He knows he’s dead either way,” Sergei reminds me. “Just stay sharp. I’m not pulling you out of there in a body bag.”
I nod as we look at the building. It’s a large warehouse near the water.
It’s an odd place for a wedding, but I’m sure Mikhail is having it here on purpose.
It’s Grinkov territory. He thinks that’ll make him safer.
He thinks I wouldn’t dare have the audacity to attack. His arrogance makes him sloppy.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. He checks his weapon again, then checks mine like he doesn’t trust me to have done it myself. He’s not stupid. He knows my head is not in a normal place. He knows the only reason I’m still breathing evenly is because I’m forcing it.
The vehicles roll in tight formation. Two cars peel off early and take the long route around to the back.
Misha’s team is already in place near the power grid.
Another team is posted on the side street with eyes on the side entrance.
There are too many men in play to try for stealth.
Our only move is to overwhelm Grinkov’s men and do it quickly.
“You ready, kid?” I ask, looking back to Pavel.
He nods solemnly.
Belov’s men are visible before we even stop.
They aren’t dressed in uniform. They don’t need to be.
They stand at corners with rigid posture and blank faces, scanning the street like they already know what to look for.
They have the relaxed confidence of men who believe the building behind them cannot be breached.
Sergei lets Pavel out of the car and sends him over to one of the guards.
We watch from a short distance, but close enough that we can take him out if he decides to change the script.
He’s supposed to tell the guards the truth—he was kidnapped by Viktor Kovalev, and Viktor is on his way to ruin the wedding.
We watch as he gestures dramatically to the guard. My hands stay steady on the wheel. The moment Belov appears, I’ll be ready.
Sergei shifts in his seat. “You need to remember the objective.”
“My objective is her,” I say.
“I meant the method,” he says. “You cannot shoot innocent guests. You cannot lose control.”
“No one at this sham wedding is innocent,” I reply coldly.
I believe that when I say it. I also know there likely are some people in that building who don’t deserve to die. I also know that my woman is inside a building full of enemies, who will happily step over her body.
The radio crackles once in my ear. Misha’s voice comes through, clipped and controlled. “Power is ready.”
“Almost there,” I say. “We’re holding for Belov.”
A second later, Belov comes out of the warehouse, looking for Pavel.
Sergei exhales slowly. “Do it,” he tells Misha.
The block goes darker a second later. Not pitch-black, but enough that the venue’s warm glow flickers and dies, leaving only emergency lighting inside.
The street lights stay on. The outside cameras lose their feed.
Belov’s men react immediately, heads lifting, posture tightening, hands moving closer to jackets.
That’s the moment the first shots hit, but they’re not ours. Belov has shooters posted, and he doesn’t hesitate. He fires toward the side street where he thinks the threat is coming from. He wants to pin us before we can get close. His men fan out and start moving with purpose.
He’s good, but not good enough.
Sergei leans forward. “Now.”
I drive straight at the front barricade.
Belov’s men aren’t expecting that. They’re expecting us to come in cautiously, to test the perimeter, to hesitate because there are civilians and guests. They’re expecting a standoff. They’re expecting diplomacy.
I don’t slow. The car hits the first barrier and the metal scrapes under the tires. A guard jumps aside at the last possible second. The second guard tries to raise his gun. Sergei leans out the window and puts him down with two clean shots before the man can fire.
The sound of gunfire triggers panic inside. I can see silhouettes shifting behind the windows and people turning toward exits. I can see the illusion of a wedding collapsing into exactly what it always was: a staged event built on blood.
I slam the car to a stop at an angle that gives us cover.
The air smells like salt and oil and exhaust. My pulse is steady. My mind is not.
“Stay tight,” Sergei tells the men behind us over comms. “Do not spray rounds. You fire only when you have a target. Confirm before you pull the trigger.”
Everyone answers him. Everyone knows Sergei’s discipline is the only way we’ll survive long enough to reach her.
I step out and move fast, using the car as a shield. Bullets crack into the metal, sharp and close. One hits the windshield and the glass spiderwebs across the surface. Another pings off the doorframe near my shoulder. Belov’s men are already repositioning, trying to create crossfire.
I don’t give them time. I take the first man down with a shot to the throat. He drops without a sound. The second man tries to duck behind a concrete post. I put one round into his chest, then one into his head when he tries to recover.
My men move behind me in tight formation. They don’t bunch up. They don’t hesitate. They keep the angles covered.
The side entrance bursts open across the lot as Misha’s team hits it. Smoke blooms from the doorway, not from fire, but from a canister meant to disrupt sightlines. It’s not for theatrics. It’s for speed.
Belov’s men split instantly, some rushing toward the side entrance, some holding the front. They’re trying to keep us out. They’re trying to keep the guests contained. They’re trying to keep the bride secure.
They’re failing.
A scream slices through the air from inside, then another. I hear the sound of chairs scraping and footsteps running. I hear glass shatter. The wedding is turning into a stampede.
Sergei stays close to my shoulder. “We need to get inside before they move her.”
“Let’s go,” I answer.
Belov’s men fire again. One of my shooters goes down near the front barrier, hit in the side. He collapses hard, and the man behind him drags him back without breaking formation. No one stops. No one panics. The dead weight gets moved and the line keeps advancing.
I reach the front doors covered in white fabric and flowers. The sight makes something cold and vicious settle behind my ribs. Mikhail dressed up his violence in lace. I rip the door open hard enough that the fabric tears.
The sound on the other side reaches me instantly. Hundreds of panicked voices. Screams. Shouts. The echo of gunfire in a large enclosed space. The smell of perfume mixing with sweat, spilled alcohol, smoke, and blood.
The interior is exactly what I expected.
A long aisle is set up down the center. Tables are arranged along the sides with white linens and expensive centerpieces.
Men in suits are ducking behind chairs. Women are literally clutching their pearls and crying.
Some are crawling under tables. Some are frozen, too shocked to move.
Belov’s security teams are posted at key points, but they’re scrambling now, caught between stopping us and controlling a crowd that has become a liability.
I step inside and the world narrows. My gun stays up. My eyes move fast. I shoot only at Mikhail’s men. I’m careful about that. I know what I came to do.
A guard pops up behind a table with his weapon raised. I put him down. Another tries to rush the aisle. Sergei takes him out before he makes three steps. A third man fires blindly toward the door, hitting nothing but air. One of my men drops him easily.
People scream louder as the bodies fall.
They push toward exits, tripping over each other.
A woman in a red dress falls and is nearly trampled.
One of Grinkov’s men grabs her and yanks her upright, not because he cares about her, but because he wants the crowd moving in a direction that clears his line of sight.
I move down the aisle like it’s a corridor in a war zone. Sergei stays tight on my left. Two men cover behind. The rest press in from the side entrance, forcing Belov’s security inward and breaking their perimeter into pockets.
A gunshot cracks close to my ear. A bullet clips a support beam, spraying splinters. I pivot and see a shooter on the balcony level, tucked behind the railing drapery. I fire once. He drops out of sight. I keep moving.
The officiant is nowhere to be seen. The arch of flowers at the front is still standing, pristine and absurd amid the chaos. A microphone lies on the floor, abandoned.
Someone yells my name from behind.
“Viktor, right side.”
I shift, firing toward movement near the tables. A man goes down. Another crawls away, clutching his leg, leaving a smear of blood across the white floor. I step over it without looking.
A shape appears at the front of the aisle, and my body reacts before my brain finishes the thought. It’s a woman wearing white. She isn’t moving. She’s standing still like she wants to be taken out.
For a moment the gunfire becomes distant. The screaming becomes a dull roar. The room tilts, and the only thing that stays fixed is her.
The dress is expensive and structured, meant to make her look delicate. She’s never been delicate. She’s a warrior. Even in that dress, even with her hair pinned and her face made up, she looks like herself. Her posture is rigid. Her chin is lifted. Her eyes are sharp.
She doesn’t look broken. She looks determined. She turns her head slightly, and her eyes find mine across the destruction. For a second, I see something flicker there.
The crowd around her shifts. Guards tighten in a semicircle. Someone grabs her arm. Mikhail is near her, dressed in dark suit, calm amidst the chaos, as if this is still his stage and he still believes he can control the script.
He leans close to her like he’s whispering something. My vision goes hot at the edges. Sergei’s voice cuts through the narrowing.
“Viktor, you need to keep moving. If you stop here, they will reposition.”
“I see her,” I answer.
Sergei stays firm. “Then get her so we can get the hell out of here.”
That’s the only thing I want.
I push forward.
Belov’s men fire from the left. A bullet cracks into the floor near my foot.
I don’t slow. One of my men goes down behind me with a grunt.
Another grabs him and drags him backward.
Sergei fires twice, dropping the shooter who tried to pin us.
The table behind that shooter splinters. A glass centerpiece shatters.
A woman screams again, higher this time, and I don’t even look to see who it is. My focus is a straight line between Anya and me.
Someone steps into my path with a gun. I shoot him in the chest and keep moving as his body collapses into the aisle. Sergei mutters a curse under his breath. My men tighten formation again. Anya’s gaze stays on me.
She’s surrounded, but she’s still upright. She’s still composed. She’s still refusing to give Mikhail what he wants.
The moment I get close enough to see the tension in her jaw, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and the way her hand hovers near her abdomen like she’s anchoring herself, something inside me breaks loose.
She’s mine. The child she’s carrying is mine. Mikhail Grinkov messed with the wrong fucking guy.