Chapter 27
MARIYA
Istare at the three men blocking my path, and every muscle in my body tenses.
The one in the middle is tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair and a scar running down his left cheek.
The other two flank him like bookends, both built like brick walls.
They're all wearing casual clothes, but there's nothing casual about the way they're looking at me. Like I'm prey they've been hunting.
The middle one takes a step forward, his hands raised in what's probably supposed to be a non-threatening gesture. But I can see the gun holstered at his hip, the knife strapped to his ankle. These men came prepared.
"It would be in your best interests to come quietly with us," he says, his accent thick. Russian. Of course, he's Russian.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, but I force myself to stay calm.
To think. Three against one, all of them bigger and stronger than me.
But my father taught me that size isn't everything.
Speed matters. Surprise matters. And right now, they think I'm just some scared woman who'll do what she's told.
They're wrong.
"Fuck yourselves," I say and deliver a roundhouse kick to the middle man's jaw.
The impact sends a shock up my leg, but it's worth it. His head snaps to the side, and he stumbles backward, blood already streaming from his mouth. For one brief, beautiful moment, all three men freeze in surprise. They weren't expecting me to fight back, weren't expecting me to know how.
I use that moment to run.
My feet pound against the path as I sprint back the way I came, my lungs already burning.
I'm a good fighter. My father made sure of that.
But taking on three big Bratva men wouldn't be the smartest move.
Not when I can run. Not when I can get back to the house where there are guards and weapons and safety.
Behind me, I hear cursing in Russian. Footsteps. They're coming after me, and they're fast. Faster than I expected.
I push myself harder, my arms pumping, my legs eating up the distance. The path curves ahead, winding through the trees, and I take the turn without slowing down. My sneakers grip the ground, and I lean into the curve like I'm racing.
Then I see them.
Andrey and Matvey, running toward me with guns drawn. Relief floods through me so intensely, it's almost painful. I've never been happier to see two people in my entire life. My husband. The word feels strange in my head, but right now, I don't care. Right now, he's exactly what I need.
Andrey's face is flushed with fury, his blue eyes blazing. Even from this distance, I can see the rage radiating off him in waves. His jaw is clenched, his body moving with lethal grace, and he looks like death incarnate.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. The three men are gaining on me, their longer legs closing the distance. The one I kicked is in the lead, his face a mask of blood and fury. They're maybe twenty feet behind me now. Fifteen.
I put all my strength into running, every ounce of energy I have left. My legs are screaming, my lungs burning, but I don't slow down. Can't slow down. I focus on Andrey, on the way he's moving toward me, on the promise of safety in his arms.
Without missing a stride, Andrey raises his gun and fires.
The shot cracks through the air, loud and sharp, and behind me, someone yells out in pain. I don't look back and just keep running.
"Down!" Andrey shouts.
I throw myself to the side, off the small path and into the grass. My shoulder hits the ground hard enough to knock the air from my lungs, and I roll, covering my head with my arms.
Gunfire erupts around me. The sound is deafening, shot after shot echoing through the trees. I press myself flat against the ground, my heart hammering, my body shaking with adrenaline. The smell of gunpowder fills the air, acrid and sharp.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.
The silence that follows is almost worse than the gunfire. My ears are ringing, and I can hear my own ragged breathing but nothing else. Slowly, carefully, I lift my head.
All three men are on the ground. Two of them aren't moving, dark pools of blood spreading beneath their bodies. The third is alive but wounded, clutching his shoulder and groaning. The one I kicked. There's a certain satisfaction in seeing him brought down.
Andrey is beside me in seconds, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes scanning my body for injuries. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. My whole body is trembling, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard.
"Can you stand?" His voice is gentler now, but I can still hear the fury beneath it, the barely controlled violence.
I nod and let him pull me to my feet. My legs feel shaky, but they hold. Andrey keeps one arm around my waist, supporting me, and I lean into him without thinking. He's solid and warm, and right now, he's the only thing keeping me upright.
Matvey is already moving toward the wounded man, his gun trained on him. Two more guards appear from the direction of the house, weapons drawn, their faces grim.
"Take him to the interrogation room," Andrey orders. "And get the cleanup crew out here for the other two."
The guards move quickly and efficiently. It's obvious that they've done this before. I watch as they haul the wounded man to his feet, ignoring his groans of pain. Blood drips from his shoulder, staining his jacket dark.
Andrey's hand tightens on my waist. "Come with me."
I don't argue, don't protest. I just let him guide me back toward the house, my body moving on autopilot. My mind is still trying to process what just happened. Three men tried to kidnap me. Three men who knew where I'd be, who were waiting for me.
How did they know? I hadn't told anyone of my plans because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Had they been looking for a way into the house and then seen me jogging?
The walk back to the house feels surreal. The morning is still beautiful, the sun warm on my face, birds singing in the trees. Like nothing happened. Like three men didn't just try to take me. Like two of them aren't lying dead on the path behind us.
We don't go to the main house. Instead, Andrey leads me to a side entrance I haven't used before and down a set of stairs I didn't know existed. The basement. My stomach clenches as I realize where we're going.
The interrogation room.
I've only been in this room once, when I first arrived. When I'd been bound and gagged to a chair, terrified and alone. The memory makes my skin crawl, and I have to suppress a shudder as we step inside.
The room looks exactly the same. Concrete walls and floor. A single metal chair bolted to the ground. Harsh fluorescent lights overhead. It's cold down here, and I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill.
Matvey is already there with the wounded man. I watch as he forces him into the chair, the same chair I'd occupied not long ago. The man groans as Matvey binds his wrists and ankles with zip ties, pulling them tight enough that the plastic cuts into his skin.
"Mariya." Andrey's voice pulls my attention back to him. "You don't have to stay for this."
I look at him, at the concern in his blue eyes, and shake my head. "I want to know why they came after me."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Stay behind me."
The interrogation is brutal.
Matvey starts with questions, his voice flat and emotionless. Who sent you? Why are you here? What do you want with Mariya?
The man refuses to answer, spitting blood on the floor instead. So Matvey hits him. A solid punch to the ribs that makes the man cry out. Then another. And another.
I force myself to watch, even though my stomach is turning. This is the world I've married into. This is what the Bratva does. Violence and blood and pain, all in the name of information and power.
Andrey stands beside me, his body tense, his hands clenched into fists. I can feel the rage radiating off him, barely contained. He wants to be the one doing the hitting, wants to make this man pay for daring to come after me.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, the man finally breaks.
"New family," he gasps, blood dripping from his mouth. "Just moved here from Russia."
Andrey doesn't look surprised. If anything, he looks grimmer. "The attack on the docks was a distraction."
It's not a question, but the man nods anyway. "Had to get you away from the estate. Away from her."
"Why?" Andrey takes a step forward, and the man flinches. "What do you want with my wife?"
"The bounty." The words come out slurred, painful. "We were just after the bounty."
My blood runs cold. Bounty? What bounty?
Andrey's jaw tightens. "How much?"
The man looks up at him, and despite the pain, despite the blood, he smiles. It's a terrible smile, full of malice and satisfaction.
"A million dollars," he says. "There's a million-dollar bounty on your wife. To capture her alive."