“I heard it, too,” her friend says, concerned.
It sounded like firecrackers but instinct tells me it’s not. A split second later, I hear screams and know for certain that it wasgunfire.
10
Caterina
The decision of whether I should hide in this bathroom stall or try to escape and find an exit is made moot a handful of seconds later. I’ve barely had time to pull the jack knife from my corset and steel myself to make a break for it when the outer door opens with a loud bang. Margareta and her friend both scream as a man I’ve never laid eyes on aims his gun at us… right before his head practically explodes. With a sickening thud, the pulpy-headed body falls to the floor, his killer holding a powerful handgun and standing right behind him.
“Alessio?”
My husband’s gun wavers toward the three of us and my pulse pounds between my ears. The only emotion I sense from him is supreme outrage, his mood as black as a demon’s soul. It’s only his eyes that indicate any consciousness though little sanity. They strangely burn a more brilliant shade of blue.
But, as if some switch has been flipped once he recognizes me, he holds out his hand. “Come,” he barks at me. “Go hide,” hetells the other two women without a backwards glance once I’ve taken his hand.
“What’s happening? Who’s fighting? Is there war again?” I ask breathlessly as Alessio drags me along. I know it’s not the ideal time for questions but terror has turned Curious Cat into a Chatty Cathy.
If he hears my questions though, he shows no sign of it.
We turn toward an exterior exit at the back of the hotel’s party venue but, before we can reach it, more men I don’t recognize are coming through it. They’re not wedding guests. They’re dressed too casually and they’re armed with automatic weapons. “Dear God,” I murmur, certain we’re doomed.
It doesn’t stop Alessio who has the element of surprise on his side. Dropping down behind a caterers’ cart, he opens fire, killing all three before they have time to realize an enemy is near.
“Who are they?” I ask, creeping up behind him as he surveys the bodies.
“Bratva,” he spits.
Bratva. The Russian crime syndicate is attacking our wedding? With my fears over war breaking out within the Trio again, I didn’t consider how many enemies we still have outside of it.
Alessio leans down. “Let’s find out how useful you are, wifey,” he taunts, smirking when he sees my knife. He takes all three rifles from the dead men, tucking his pistol into his holster and holding onto two while handing the last one to me. I’m forced to slip my knife back into the bodice of my dress to safely hold the heavy thing.
“I’ve never fired one of these,” I say, numbly. “I could handle your pistol.” I wasn’t intending to let my abilities slip but it doesn’t seem to matter now.
“Just hold that and don’t shoot yourself… or me.” I want to be annoyed by his patronizing behavior but, honestly, he freaksme out. He’s so calm. I wonder if his pulse is even elevated. It’s unnatural to be this calm under such circumstances, isn’t it?
“Aren’t we going out the door?” I ask, looking back at the rear exit.
He shakes his head, leading me in another direction. “There may be more of them out there. It’s best if I keep you close.”
“But, if we both go-”
He spins, bringing his face down to mine, mere millimeters between us. “You thinkI’drun from these fucking pieces of shit?” he scoffs.
“Silly me,” I mutter when he turns back around, pulling me toward where the main battle is being fought. God, how many Russians are in there? How many of our men still stand and fight?
In the hallway, not far from the bathroom I was just in, I see Margareta’s friend on the floor, shot dead, and I stagger. “I didn’t even know her name. My brothers… are they-”
Alessio snarls something vile under his breath and snaps at me to keep up, his hand never letting go of mine for a second.
Inside the ballroom, our men are mounting a defense, using overturned tables and whatever is at hand as a barrier while they keep up a steady fire. Every Made Man is armed – not even a wedding would find them completely off-guard – but the Russians have automatic weapons.
I barely have time to register a handful of familiar faces before my husband is pushing me behind one of the make-shift barricades and onto the floor. “You, stay down.”
“Thank fuck,” Armando says from beside me as Alessio passes him one of the assault rifles.
He passes the other to a man on our other side and takes the one I’ve been holding before he crouches over me and opens fire. With the horribly loud, repeating fire so close, I cover my earsas my husband’s spicy cologne mixed with his sweat invades my nostrils. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
“Great security arrangements you have here, De Luca,” a cold voice clips sarcastically from nearby.
