There’s a rousing round of applause from the five hundred guests, drunk on expensive vodka and champagne.
An enormous floor-to-ceiling screen that looks like it belongs in a football arena brightens behind us with an image of Dmitri and me leaving the cathedral. “It is my duty as the nextsurvivingbrother-” There’s a rustle of murmurs that sweep around the room like a dark wind. “-to honor my Pakhan and his beautiful bride.”
Next to me, Dmitri stiffens, his jaw tight.
“You may wonder how this memorable alliance was created,” Nikolai continues, sending us a cheerful smile. “Allow me to show you their story.”
The next image up on the colossal screen is that of Alexi and me. I don’t know how it was taken, but I remember when. We’d been skating on our rooftop ice rink and he’d paused to pull me in for a kiss, the snow falling behind us.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the heart.
There’s a low growl from Dmitri and he’s about to rise to his feet when I see Nikolai’s free hand make a signal.
A flood of gunmen surge through every door in the ballroom and there are the sounds of scattered screams, glasses and china crashing to the floor. The men surround the dais and Nikolai shouts, “There is no threat to you, esteemed guests! Give us five minutes to explain.”
The next man through the door to the left of our table is Alexi.
The Red Trade refers to human trafficking
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In which love (or sheer stubbornness) brings Alexi back from the dead.
Alexi…
A week ago…
Fuck. It’s so cold.
That’s the first thing I feel, then the agony slams through me. Someone’s gouging out my insides and I can feel the wet slide of my blood streaming from my chest.
“Hold him,” someone grunts, “I’ve got to get this bullet out.”
Hands come down hard on my shoulders, keeping me still. “Brother, you’re alive. I’ve got you. I got you.” The voice breaks slightly, and fighting through the pain, I realize it’s Nikolai.
“Ni…”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Lucya’s safe. Stop fucking thrashing around so the doctor can fix you up.”
When I finally force my eyes open, Nikolai is lying on a stretcher next to me, squeezing a ball while blood flows from a tube in his arm to mine.
“Lucya…” I groan, trying to sit up.
“Sit your ass back down!” he says sharply. “I’m power-drinking shitty lime-flavored Gatorade so I can keep donating blood. If you tear your stitches, I’m pulling the plug.”
“What.” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “What happened? Dmitri shot…”
“Da, the treacherous fuck shot you point blank, twice in the chest, and an extra bullet in the head.”
“You survived the headshot because the bullet hit the thickest part of your skull.” A woman strolls into the room, drying her hands but still wearing bloody scrubs. She’s young, probably just a few years out of her residency. “The bullet ricocheted down the left side of your face instead of tunneling into your brain. It left quite a scar, I’m afraid.” She pulls off her surgical cap, looking exhausted. “Your brother dragged you into my clinic just as I was trying to lock up and go home.”
“It was either her or the 24-hour vet clinic down the street,” Nikolai says.
“I’m flattered,” she says dryly. “I’m Dr. Coleman. I’m not completely sure how you’re still alive, but your brother made it clear that no one can know this tidbit of information.”
“I’ll triple your pay,” Nikolai assures her.
She’s offended. “I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. Don’t fucking insult me. Though I should overcharge you for being a pain in the ass.”
