I look up, searching for Katya, for my family, but all I see is chaos. Men in suits firing weapons. Women in expensive dressescrawling under pews. Blood—so much blood—spreading across the white marble floor.
And Sergei.
Sergei is still standing at the altar, his face frozen in shock. He's looking down at his chest, where three dark stains are spreading across his white shirt. Three perfect circles, right over his heart.
He takes one stumbling step toward me, his mouth opening as if to speak. Then his legs give out and he collapses, falling forward onto the altar steps. His blood pools around him, mixing with the shattered glass, and his eyes—those cold eyes—stare at nothing.
He's dead.
My fiancé is dead.
I should feel something—horror, grief, shock—but all I feel is a strange numbness. I barely knew him. I didn't want to marry him. And now he's dead at my feet, and I'm still in this wedding dress, and the world is ending around me.
Someone grabs my arm, and I scream, trying to pull away. But the grip is iron-strong, and when I look up, I see Dimitri Morozov's face above me. His expression is completely blank, showing no emotion even as bullets fly around us and people die and the church burns.
Because the church is burning now. I can smell the smoke, see the flames licking up the wooden pews. Someone must have thrown an incendiary device. The ancient wood is going up like kindling, and the smoke is getting thicker by the second.
"We need to move," Dimitri says, his voice calm and controlled, as if we're discussing the weather and not running for our lives. "Now."
I try to stand, but my dress is caught on something—glass, or debris, or maybe Sergei's body. I can't tell. Dimitri doesn't wait. He simply bends down, lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and starts moving.
I want to protest, to tell him to put me down, to ask about Katya and my parents. But the smoke is choking me, and the heat from the flames is intense, and all I can do is cling to his shoulders as he carries me through the inferno.
We pass bodies. So many bodies. Guards, guests, people I've known my whole life, all lying still on the blood-slicked marble. I see my father's associate face down near the entrance. I see one of Sergei's cousins slumped against a pew, his expensive suit torn and bloody.
I don't see Katya. I don't see my parents.
"My sister," I manage to choke out. "I need to find?—"
"Your family got out," Dimitri says curtly. "I saw them leave through the side exit."
I don't know if he's telling the truth or just saying what I need to hear to keep me from fighting him. But I don't have the strength to argue. The smoke is too thick, the heat too intense, and my lungs are burning.
We burst through the main doors into the cool evening air, and I gasp, sucking in oxygen. Behind us, the church is fully engulfed now, flames shooting through the broken windows and lickingat the domed roof. Emergency sirens wail in the distance, but they're too far away, too late.
Dimitri doesn't stop moving. He carries me across the plaza in front of the church, past the fountain where I took photos just an hour ago, past the rose garden where I was supposed to have my reception photos taken. His men are everywhere, forming a protective corridor, weapons drawn and eyes scanning for threats.
An armored SUV sits at the curb, engine running. The back door is already open. Dimitri doesn't slow down, doesn't ask permission. He simply deposits me in the back seat and climbs in after me, slamming the door behind us.
"Drive," he orders, and the vehicle lurches forward.
I twist in my seat, looking back at the burning church. Flames are shooting from the roof now, and the dome is starting to collapse. People are scattered across the plaza—survivors, witnesses, the lucky ones who made it out. I search desperately for Katya's face, for my mother's distinctive blonde hair, for any sign of my family.
But we're moving too fast, and the smoke is too thick, and then we turn a corner and the church disappears from view.
I turn back to face forward, my hands shaking, my wedding dress torn and stained with blood and soot. Dimitri sits beside me, perfectly composed, already on his phone speaking rapid Russian to someone. He's giving orders, coordinating something, his voice never wavering.
I should be grateful. He saved my life. He pulled me out of that inferno when I was frozen in shock. But as I sit here in the backof his SUV, speeding away from the carnage, one question keeps echoing in my mind.
Why?
Why did he save me? Why did he grab me, specifically, when there were dozens of other people in that church? Why is he taking me with him instead of returning me to my family?
As if sensing my thoughts, Dimitri ends his call and turns those intense green eyes on me. Up close, I can see the details I missed at the altar—the small scar above his left eyebrow, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, the tattoos peeking out from under his collar. An eight-pointed star on his right pec, visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt. The mark of a high-ranking Bratva member.
"You're safe now," he says, and it should be reassuring, but something in his tone makes it sound like a threat.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask, and I'm surprised my voice is steady.
