Chapter 28
ANYA
The moment the lights go dark, I know my decision has been made for me. Someone’s come to interrupt the wedding. Someone who I presume is Viktor.
The first wave of screaming starts on the far side of the room, near the doors.
It moves across the tables like a ripple.
People duck under white linens and topple chairs, knocking over centerpieces that explode into glass and water and flowers.
A woman in black lace screams someone’s name and grabs at his sleeve, dragging him toward an exit that is already blocked by bodies.
Someone else shoves her and she stumbles, then drops to her knees and crawls away.
The aisle that was meant to feel ceremonial becomes a corridor of chaos. The draped fabric overhead sways as people slam into support beams. A candle display goes down in a crash of metal and flame, and someone in a suit yelps as fire brushes his pantleg.
The guards on the perimeter don’t move like the guests.
They don’t bolt. They don’t freeze. They pivot and reposition, creating lines of sight, using overturned tables as cover and moving the crowd out of their shooting lanes with rough hands.
They grab wrists and shoulders and shove people down, not because they care if someone gets trampled.
They care about clear angles. They care about stopping the assault.
Mikhail turns his head slightly, eyes still calm, and speaks low enough that the nearest guards can hear him without anyone else catching every word.
“Seal the exits,” he says in a tone that is far too calm and polite for the current slough of chaos.
A burst of gunfire cracks again, closer now.
I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting metal, then glass, then something softer that makes a man cry out in a way that turns my stomach.
The screaming spreads again as the crowd gets the message that this isn’t just a warning shot.
This is an invasion, and no one is safe just because they wore a suit.
I keep my chin lifted and my face blank.
Still, my eyes immediately track movement through the chaos. Men in dark clothing are pushing into the venue from the front and from the side, moving with purpose. They don’t fire wildly. They fire in controlled bursts, and only at Mikhail’s men.
Mikhail’s security returns fire, and the room becomes a series of pockets.
Guests scatter in clumps, crawling behind tables or pushing toward corners that are less exposed.
Security teams form tight clusters, firing from cover, communicating with hand signals and quick verbal orders.
The only light is coming from fairy lights that must be battery-operated.
It gives the whole violent scene an almost whimsical glow. It’s all such an absurd juxtaposition.
A man in a gray suit tries to sprint up the aisle, maybe thinking he can reach the side exit before anyone notices.
He makes it three steps before a bullet catches him in the leg.
He drops hard, crashing into the aisle runner and grabbing at his thigh with both hands as blood pours through his fingers.
He screams and tries to crawl, leaving a streak behind him that ruins the illusion of white purity Mikhail decorated this place with.
Two women step back from him instinctively, horror on their faces, and one of them falls into a chair when her knees give out.
Mikhail’s attention stays fixed somewhere past the destruction, toward the door where the assault is thickest. He’s listening, calculating, deciding whether this is a rival crew hoping to embarrass him or this is something more direct.
His grip on my wrist tightens again, and it reminds me that in his mind, I am the anchor point of this entire war.
This building is just a stage. I’m the objective.
He leans slightly toward one of his men.
“Find out if Kovalev is here,” he says, still calm.
The man’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second before he looks away. He knows. They all know. This is not a random attack. No one storms a Grinkov wedding because they want to make a statement. They storm a Grinkov wedding because they want something they cannot get any other way.
They’re here for me.
A sharp crack of gunfire hits close to the front, then another, then the sound of a door being forced open hard enough that the hinges scream.
The crowd surges again, and the entire center aisle shifts like it’s breathing.
A chandelier-style light fixture swings, and glass droplets from it rain down like tiny knives.
Someone screams and covers their head, and I don’t blame them.
The room is turning into a slaughterhouse and no one is brave when they realize bravery won’t stop a bullet.
A guard near me lifts his weapon and aims toward the aisle, and Mikhail snaps, “Not near her,” in a voice that still never rises, which is almost more terrifying than yelling. The guard adjusts his angle immediately, obedient.
Mikhail will let the guests die if it serves him. He will not let me get hit unless it becomes necessary. It’s not because he loves me, though. It’s because he refuses to lose.
A cluster of men pushes down the aisle, weapons up, firing in measured bursts. They move like they’ve done this together before. They move like they trust each other. Then I see him.
Viktor is in the middle of that line, tall and broad and terrifyingly focused.
He isn’t scanning the room like he’s worried about being shot.
He’s scanning for me, and the second his eyes find mine across the cacophony, something in my chest tightens so hard it feels like it might break.
Yet as relieved as I am, I’m furious at him for risking his life like this.
All he’s done is put himself in Mikhail’s crosshairs.
He locks eyes with me for one moment, and the room feels smaller.
The gunfire feels farther away. The screaming becomes a dull roar, like someone turned the volume down.
His gaze flicks down my body once, fast and controlled, checking that I’m upright, checking that I’m breathing, checking that I’m still in one piece.
His mouth tightens, and I see something dark move behind his eyes.
Mikhail notices it too. He follows my gaze, and his smile changes slightly.
The politeness drains out of it, leaving something colder.
His hand slides from my wrist to the small of my back, a possessive touch meant to taunt Viktor.
His fingers press lightly, as if he’s guiding me, as if I’m his bride and not his hostage.
“Look at him,” Mikhail murmurs, voice pitched for me alone. “He came to die.”
I keep my face calm. “He came to take me.”
Mikhail’s fingers tighten at my back. “You’re going to watch his last moments.”
A man on Viktor’s left goes down. I see it happen in the corner of my eye, a jerk of movement, then a collapse as he’s hit and dragged back by someone else.
Viktor doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even turn his head.
He keeps moving forward, and the men around him adjust to cover the gap.
Someone fires from a table near the left aisle seats and gets two shots off before Viktor’s group puts him down.
The shooter drops behind his overturned chair like someone cut his strings.
The crowd screams again when they realize their guards are dying too. The Bratva elite is used to watching other people suffer. They aren’t used to being the ones in the line of fire. They duck and cower and crawl and cover their heads, and it’s ugly.
Mikhail shifts his stance slightly, putting me behind him by a fraction.
A guard on his right moves closer, weapon trained toward Viktor’s line.
Another guard on his left raises his gun too.
They are forming a kill corridor, and the realization hits me hard enough to make my stomach tighten again.
Mikhail doesn’t care if the whole wedding burns. He just wants Viktor to die.
He’ll make me watch, too. My only way out of this is to put myself in the line of fire.
My hand twitches at my side. It’s instinct, not emotion. It’s my body remembering what my mind already knows.
Viktor gets closer. The distance compresses. The aisle becomes a straight line of blood and smoke and shattered glass. His men keep firing with restraint.
Mikhail’s security tightens, and the air around me changes.
The men flanking me shift their feet, preparing.
Someone speaks into an earpiece and nods.
Another man moves behind the arch of flowers with a weapon raised, trying to set up a shot on Viktor’s approach.
A guard on the far side points toward an exit behind the stage area, and I realize with cold clarity that they have a plan for me too.
They aren’t going to let Viktor reach me. If Viktor gets close, they will move me. If Viktor breaks through, they will use me as a shield. If Viktor refuses to stop, they will shoot me and blame him for it.
I swallow hard to keep my face composed. I refuse to give Mikhail the satisfaction of seeing fear in my expression. He has worked for months to manufacture fear. He doesn’t get to watch it bloom now like a victory.
Viktor’s gaze stays locked on me. He fires, moves, fires again.
A Grinkov guard drops. Another stumbles back clutching his shoulder.
Viktor’s men surge forward another step, and the crowd reacts with a fresh wave of screaming, as if the guests have realized the fight is coming toward them no matter what they do.
“I have one final gift for you, my bride,” Mikhail tells me in a sadistic voice.
I glare at him with all the hatred and anger I can muster.
“You get to prove your loyalty to me,” he says, pulling out his gun and shoving it into my hands. “Shoot your lover. End this.”
Even now, he’s not giving up his control. He’ll frame this like a desperate, final act of a beautiful bride. Look how well she protected her husband. Look how well she listened when he gave her an instruction.
He speaks softly, close enough for me to hear him over the distant gunfire and screaming. “Take it.”
I don’t move at first. I don’t want to take the gun. There’s no way in hell I can shoot Viktor. I’d rather shoot myself. That’s the decision, really. Kill Viktor or actually kill myself.
Mikhail smiles wider. “You want control, don’t you, Anya? You want agency? Here it is.”
“The room has gone strangely quiet near the front.
The fight has shifted farther back for a moment, contained in pockets.
Viktor is still advancing, but his line is slower now because security is tightening around him.
People are still screaming and running in the back, but the front has become a stage.
Everyone senses it. Everyone is watching.
Mikhail keeps the gun extended.
“Shoot him quickly,” he says calmly. “Prove your loyalty to me or watch him suffer horrifically.”
My eyes flick toward Viktor. He is close enough now that I can see the blood on his sleeve, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are set like he’s bracing for impact.
He is still moving forward, still refusing to slow down, even though any one of these men could get lucky and put a bullet through his throat.
His gaze is on me, sharp and steady. He trusts me to make the right decision.
My fingers close around the gun. The metal is cold in my palm. The weight of it is familiar. The familiarity brings me no comfort, though.
I lift the gun slowly and deliberately, keeping my grip steady and my expression neutral.
Mikhail’s hand settles lightly on the small of my back again, possessive and sure. His smile stays fixed. His eyes are bright with anticipation now, because he believes he has cornered me. He believes the only way I survive is by killing the man who came for me.
He doesn’t understand what survival means to me. I keep my breath shallow. I keep my shoulders relaxed. I keep my aim steady. Then I turn the gun on him.
The motion is smooth, controlled, and final.
The barrel swings away from Viktor and centers on Mikhail’s chest. His smile falters.
It doesn’t vanish completely, because he’s stubborn and prideful and he probably can’t believe I would do this in front of so many witnesses.
Then his eyes sharpen, and the polite mask starts to crack as he realizes I’m not bluffing.