Leo Rostova is next. “Your claim to your Bratva is supported. Death.”
Radimir Agapov was a friend of my father’s for over forty years. “The Agapov Bratva backs your claim. Death.”
Georgiy Vasiliev just took over as head of his family’s Bratva after his father’s death, he’s younger, like me. “There can be no question. We support your claim. Put a bullet in that treacherous bastard’s head.”
“The Dubrovins are the fifth family,” I say, “I believe you will all agree that in this case, the traitor Rurik is not allowed a vote.”
“Agreed,” they all murmur.
Rurik wails like a woman, babbling his innocence, drawing everyone’s attention to him as I pull out my Glock, eager to finish Dmitri.
Nikolai and I planned this ambush out down to the last detail, and everything has gone perfectly.
Until this moment.
Dmitri yanks a revolver from an ankle holster and shoots Nikolai. The shot goes wide, hitting his shoulder instead of his chest.
Before Dmitri can fire again, Lucya springs to her feet, burying a blade in his neck. It’s not quite deep enough to kill him, though the spray of blood across the snowy white tablecloth is very satisfying. I nod to Damien and he pulls her away. I shoot Dmitri in the head, a precise bullet hole appearing in the center of his forehead.
Rurik, seated in a position of disgrace at the very end of the dais, decides to put an end to his shame and failure before I can. He’s laughing, a high, hysterical sound, sweat rolling down his red face as he puts a gun to his head and fires. Because the old fool can do nothing right, the bullet tears across his forehead at a downward angle and hits Inessa, throwing her backward.
Lucya is swaying and I sprint towards her, leaping over the table to catch her before she can fall.
“You’re alive?” She’s sobbing so hard that she can barely get the words out.
“I am, my beautiful hummingbird,” I kiss her pale face, her lips. “I’m sorry for letting you suffer. I couldn’t get word to you in time.” Wrapping her arms around my neck, she weeps into myjacket and I sit down, lifting her onto my lap and rocking her. “I’m here, love. I’m here.”
Stiffening, she leans back and hits me as hard as she can, right in the chest. “I thought you were dead! And in case you didn’t notice, I was forced to marry yourbrother!”
Admittedly, I had not considered how horrifying that thought would be. For both of us. “You’re a widow now,Kolibri.”
She slaps at my chest again before ripping off her wedding ring and throwing it at me. “That’s the most comforting thing you can come up with?” Her eyes drop to my chest. “You’re bleeding! What did I do? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I-”
Looking down, I see my black jacket is soaking. She must have opened the stitches on my chest. “It’s all right, I’m fine.” This is not completely true, because the flow of blood is much more than it should be. With a curse, our family’s doctor, Vladimir Turgenev, races up to the dais, ripping open my shirt.
“Sofiya,” he calls over his shoulder to his wife, “send someone out to the car and get my medical bag. You-” he points at Lucya, “napkins, as many as you can find.”
“You heard the doctor!” Lucya is on fire, shouting at the waiters, “Get me all the napkins you can carry!” She kneels next to me, desperately packing the wound with the snowy white linen cloth that the Four Seasons will likely be burning after tonight.
“Didn’t you assholes check everyone for guns?” I growl at Damien.
“Really?” he says incredulously, “You’re bleeding out. Let’s address that first, shall we?”
“The doctor told him to take it easy after she patched him up,” Nikolai says, “but I think all the torturing might have made things worse with him.”
“Pakhan, what do you want me to do with Rurik Dubrovin?” Nikolai is attempting to be respectful to my new position while watching the doctor’s flying hands with concern.
“Keep him alive. I want to do the honors,” I grit between my teeth. My men are politely ushering the wedding guests out of the room, aside from another doctor sent from the Rostova Bratva, who’s kneeling beside ours and checking the second wound on my abdomen.
“How was he standing?” the Rostova doctor asks Vladimir, who grunts irritably.
“Stubbornness and recklessness go hand in hand with this family,” he snaps, taking the medical bag from his wife.
With the doctor’s direction, Lucya gently helps lift me, putting my head on her lap. “I am so sorry, husband. I never should have hit you.”
“The little slap you gave him did nothing,” Vladimir says, his hands a blur as he works to close the wound. “The Pakhan should be in the hospital. It’s a miracle he made it this far.”
My wife’s finger gently trails along my left cheek, tracing the scar that ends on my jaw. “Was this from the bullet he…” She grits her teeth, forcing her tears back, “When that piece of shit shot you?”
