14. Ilya
ILYA
The sound of the first rifle round hitting the marble head table is a sharp, supersonic crack that sends a shower of white stone dust and pulverized shrimp cocktail exploding into my face.
Viktor Russo doesn't even have time to scream before the second round catches him dead center in the throat, pinning him to the high leather back of his chair like a stuck pig.
Not Petr. The realization is a cold, instantaneous calculation in my head.
Petr Denisov loves his daughter too much to risk a high-velocity caliber tearing through a room where she’s standing.
This isn't an extraction. This is a liquidation.
Whoever is behind those scopes up on the glass atrium doesn't give a shit whether Viallentinka breathes or bleeds.
"Get down!" I roar, my left arm swinging out like a steel beam, catching Via by the shoulder and slamming her flat against the floorboards beneath the mahogany table.
She doesn't scream. She hits the wood hard, her emerald silk dress bunching around her knees, her fingers instantly clawing into the fabric of my trousers. Her face is dead white, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely hollowed out by the sudden, deafening rhythm of the assault.
The ballroom is absolute chaos. The house music is still thumping from the lower tiers, mixed with the high-pitched shrieks of socialites and the frantic, disorganized sound of guards firing blindly into the upper galleries.
Glass from the massive crystal chandeliers is raining down like ice, slicing through the air and embedding itself into the polished floor.
"Dmitri!" I shout, my right hand already pulling the Glock from its leather rig under my arm. "The doors!"
"Pinned!" Dmitri’s voice comes from behind an overturned champagne cart twenty feet away. He’s firing three-round bursts up toward the glass roof, his empty brass casings clinking sharply against the tile. "They’ve got the main exits pre-aimed! We cross the floor, we’re target practice!"
A heavy caliber slug chews through the thick mahogany over my head, showering Via’s hair in splinters. She lets out a sharp, choked gasp, her body shaking so violently, her teeth are chattering against my chest.
I have to get her out.
The hunger in my gut isn't about the ports anymore. It’s not about the alliance or the ledger. It’s a raw, animalistic need to keep this girl breathing.
"Look at me, Via," I say, my voice a flat, gravelly rasp as I lean over her, my broad shoulders completely blocking her from the glass raining down from above. "We move on three. You stay under my arm. If you trip, I drag you. Do you understand me?"
She nods frantically, her knuckles white where she’s gripping my lapels. "Ilya... the blood... there’s so much..."
"It’s not yours," I growl. "Keep your eyes on my tie."
I shift my weight, preparing to bolt toward the kitchen doors behind the banquet service line. It’s a sixty-foot sprint across an open corridor, completely exposed to the shooters on the mezzanine.
One.
Two.
Three.
I haul her to her feet in a single, violent motion, my left arm locked around her waist, lifting her high enough that her heels barely skim the slick floor.
We break from the shadow of the table just as a sniper round tracks our movement, chewing a line of holes through the plaster inches behind my heels.
A sudden, white-hot iron bar slams into the back of my left shoulder.
My grip on her waist slips for a fraction of a second, my jaw clenching as the heat of a bullet graze rips through the fabric of my tuxedo jacket and tears a neat strip of flesh from my skin.
A graze. Flesh wound. I don't slow down.
I tighten my arm around her, pulling her so close against my side that I can feel the frantic, terrified thud of her heart beating against my ribs.
"Ilya!" she shrieks, her fingers digging into the torn fabric of my jacket, feeling the wet warmth of my blood spreading down my sleeve.
"Moving!" I bark, driving us through the heavy double swinging doors of the museum kitchen.
The kitchen is a long, narrow tunnel of stainless steel tables, bright fluorescent lights, and the scent of burnt grease. But it isn't empty.
Two hitmen in grey vests are already waiting by the walk-in freezer, their submachine guns raised. They weren't expecting us to break through the banquet line.
I don't give them the second to adjust their aim. I push Via behind a massive stack of industrial dishwashing crates, my Glock barking twice before the first man can clear his safety.
The first round catches him right between the eyes, his head snapping back as he slams into the stainless steel prep table, a thick spray of dark crimson painting the pristine metal before he slides to the floor.
The second man fires a wild, panicked burst that chews through the plastic crates over Via’s head.
I charge him.
I don't waste the ammunition. I close the distance in three long strides, my heavy boot planting directly into his chest, forcing him back against the industrial stove.
The heat from the burners is roaring, the scent of searing flesh instantly filling the air as his vest catches the metal grill.
He lets out a sharp, wet grunt, trying to raise his barrel, but I grab his wrist with my left hand and twist.
The bone gives way with a deep, sickening crack.
He drops the gun, his mouth open in a scream, but I drive my right fist into his jaw, the raw impact of my knuckles shattering his teeth. He staggers, his eyes rolling back, and I finish it by grabbing the back of his vest and slamming his skull directly into the edge of the iron flat-top grill.
Two.
He goes limp, sliding into a heap of grease and red on the tile floor.
"Ilya, behind you!"
Via’s voice is a sharp, breathless warning that saves my life.
I spin on my heel just as a third man lunges through the dishwashing door, a heavy combat knife aimed straight for my throat. He’s fast, a professional, his movement tight.
I duck under the blade, the cold steel whistling past my ear, and drive the heel of my boot into his knee. The joint snaps backward with a loud, wet pop. He drops to his good knee with a guttural roar of agony, but he’s still dangerous. He swings the knife upward, catching the meat of my forearm.
The blade slices deep, a clean, biting pain that makes me hiss through my teeth.
I ignore the cut. I grab his knife hand, twisting it until his fingers open, and catch the weapon before it hits the floor. In a single, continuous motion, I drive the heavy steel blade straight down through his collarbone, sinking it into his chest until the hilt hits his vest.
Three.
He chokes, a thick bubble of pink froth rising to his lips as his lungs fill with red. He falls forward, his forehead hitting my boot before he goes still.
I turn back to Via. She’s huddled between the crates, her hands over her mouth, her hazel eyes completely wide as she looks at the three bodies, the blood dripping from my arm.
She looks like she’s about to vomit, her breathing so short and jagged I can hear the click of her throat from across the kitchen.
"Come here," I grunt, my voice rough as I slide my hands under her arms and haul her out of the corner.
She doesn't pull away. She buries her face into my chest, her wet cheeks soaking through my white shirt, her arms wrapping around my neck with a desperate, wild strength. "Don't leave me. Ilya, please. Don't let them..."
"Nobody is touching you," I say, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her golden hair as I press her face deeper into my shoulder. I can smell her vanilla, thin and sweet under the suffocating stench of the gunpowder and the grease. She’s mine. Every terrified, beautiful inch of her.
The double doors at the far end of the kitchen rattle.
Two more men break through the rear exit from the loading dock, their rifles raised. They see the bodies on the floor, they see the blood, and they see me standing in the center of the room with the girl.
"The Pakhan!" one shouts, raising his barrel.
I don't have a clear shot with Via in my arms but I grab a massive copper stockpot filled with boiling water from the prep stove next to me and hurl it down the narrow aisle with everything I have.
The heavy metal pot hits the first man dead center, the boiling liquid splashing across his face and chest. His scream is a horrific, high-pitched shriek as the skin of his face instantly blisters and peels, his rifle clattering to the tiles as he drops to his knees, clawing at his own eyes.
The fifth man tries to step around his screaming partner, but I’ve already pulled my Glock.
Three rounds to the chest. The impact drives him back through the loading dock doors, his body tumbling down the concrete steps into the rain-slicked alleyway outside.
Five.
I don't wait to see if he’s breathing. I tuck Via under my arm, my left hand holding her thighs against my hip as I run through the loading doors, my boots splashing through the dark pools of red coating the kitchen floor.
The cool, wet air of the alleyway hits my face like a bucket of ice water, clearing the heat from my brain. The rain is heavy now, a steady, driving downpour that instantly washes the fresh blood off my face and runs down the front of my white shirt in pink streaks.
My armored SUV is already idling at the corner of the alley, the driver’s side door open. Dmitri is there, his suit jacket torn, a smear of black soot across his jaw as he holds the rear door open for us.
"We need to move, Boss!" he shouts over the roar of the rain and the distant, wailing sirens of the city. "The Russo captains are regrouping at the perimeter! The whole block is going to be a war zone in two minutes!"
I shove Via into the back seat, climbing in right after her and slamming the heavy, reinforced door shut. The electronic lock engages with that heavy, familiar clunk that means safety.
The car screeches away from the curb, the tires throwing up a massive spray of dirty water against the brick walls of the alleyway as we barrel toward the highway.
I lean back against the leather seat, my chest expanding as I take a long, ragged breath. My shoulder is throbbing, a deep, burning ache where the sniper round grazed me, and my forearm is leaking a steady trail of crimson onto the dark leather of the seat.
Via is huddled next to me, her legs drawn up to her chest, her emerald silk dress soaked in rain and grease. She’s shivering, her hands clutched around her arms as she stares down at the floor of the car.
She isn't talking.
I watch her, my jaw working rhythmically. The silence in the car stretches, heavy and thick, the only sound the steady slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. I reach out, my large, bloody hand coming to rest on her knee.
She flinches, just a fraction, but she doesn't pull away. She looks up at me through the tangle of her wet golden hair, her hazel eyes glazed with terror.
"You took a bullet for me," she whispers, her voice a thin, broken thread that barely carries over the sound of the rain.
"I took a graze," I growl, my voice low and flat. "Don't flatter yourself, Via. If you die, my contract with your father is worthless. I need you alive to keep the ports."
It’s a lie, a cold, professional lie designed to protect the fortress I’ve built around my own heart. But as I look at her, as I feel the trembling heat of her skin under my palm, I know the truth.
I’d take ten more bullets before I let anyone else see her bleed.
She looks at my hand on her knee, then back up at my face.
She doesn't call me a monster. She doesn't make a joke about my suit or my ego.
She just slides closer across the leather seat, her small, cold hand rising to rest over the fresh cut on my forearm, her fingers warm and steady against my skin.
"It’s going to leave a scar," she murmurs, her thumb tracing the edge of the wound.
"I have plenty of scars, little bird," I rasp, my hand sliding from her knee to wrap around the back of her neck, my fingers pulling her in until her forehead is resting against mine. "One more won't change the view."
She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her body finally relaxing against mine as the SUV speeds through the dark, rainy night toward the fortress.
I look down at my wife, her golden hair damp against my chest, her fingers still holding onto my bleeding arm, and I realize I don't give a damn about the city.
She’s in my house now.
And I’m going to kill every single man who tries to take her away.