They push me forward. I start walking.
I go as slow as I can, dragging each step, heels clicking too loud on the stone floor. My thoughts are screaming, crashing into each other. Roman’s face when he wakes up alone, the way he’ll find the house empty and lose his mind. My father’s voice the last time we talked, gruff and proud, telling me to be strong. How the fuck did it come to this? One bad meeting, one gunshot, one jet ride, and now I’m walking toward a man who thinks he can own me, wearing a dress that feels like a shroud.
I think about Roman’s hands on me, rough and careful at the same time, the way he says my name like it’s a promise. I think about my brothers laughing at me when I was little, teaching me how to shoot, how to never back down. I think about how I almost had a life, real and messy and mine, and now it’s slipping away with every forced step.
The aisle feels endless but it’s not. I reach the end too soon.
Konstantin stands there in a black tux, bandage hidden under his collar, smiling like he’s won everything.
The music stops. The priest clears his throat. And I stand there, bouquet trembling in my hands, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth, knowing I have seconds, maybe less, before I have to decide how to burn this whole thing down.
The priest steps forward, old and stooped, voice thin and formal as he opens the book in his hands. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Konstantin stands beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne again, that sharp expensive scent that makes my stomach turn. He’s looking at me sideways, eyes narrow and dark, lips curved in that small, satisfied smile that says he already won. He leans in just enough so only I can hear, breath hot against my ear. “Be good, Anastasiya. Say the words. Smile for the camera. Do what you’re supposed to do, or I make the call. One text and Roman’s dead before the sun sets. Then Lucky. Then Blade. Then the whole club. You want their blood on your hands?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s locked tight.
The priest keeps going, oblivious or paid not to notice. “Konstantin Orlovsky, do you take Anastasiya Dragunov to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
Konstantin’s voice is smooth, loud enough for the room. “I do.”
The priest turns to me, eyes kind but distant. “Anastasiya Dragunov, do you take Konstantin Orlovsky to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, forbetter or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
The words hang there. The church is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat slamming in my ears.
I think about Roman first, the way he looks at me when we’re alone, soft and fierce all at once, the way he never tried to cage me, just stood beside me and let me fight my own fights. Then Lucky, always cracking jokes at the bar, making sure everyone’s got a beer and a laugh. Blade, quiet but steady, the one who taught me how to throw a punch without breaking my wrist. Tank, big and loud and protective, treating me like a little sister from day one. Jenny and Carlie and the other old ladies, pulling me into their group chat, teaching me how to make chili, laughing when I burned the first batch. The prospects who still blush when I walk by. The families at cookouts, kids running around the compound, wives and girlfriends swapping stories while the guys grill. All those good people. Real people. The ones who became my friends, my family, the life I actually wanted instead of this cold polished prison.
They’re all still breathing because I haven’t said no yet.
Konstantin’s hand brushes mine, subtle, a reminder. His eyes flick to his phone in his pocket, then back to me. The threat’s still hanging between us.
I swallow hard. The bouquet shakes in my grip.
The priest clears his throat again. “Miss Dragunov?”
Konstantin leans in one more time, whisper so low it’s almost tender. “Say it. Or they die screaming.”
My vision blurs at the edges, hot tears I refuse to let fall, and I think about Roman one last time, the way he’d look me dead in the eye and tell me to fight, to never fold, to claw my way out no matter what, but also the way he’d understand if I did this, if I said the words to keep him breathing, to keep Lucky cracking jokes and Blade watching everyone’s back and the whole club still standing tomorrow. I open my mouth, the word sticks thick in my throat like broken glass, but it’s coming anyway because I can’t watch them die, can’t sit here in this white silk while bullets take Roman first, then the others, one by one, all because I said no. Not for me. Not like this.
TWENTY
RIOT
We hit Helsinki at dawn,air cold enough to burn my lungs when I step off the plane. Dmitri's already on his phone, Russian fast and low, pulling intel from someone who owes the Dragunovs big. Viktor’s face is carved stone the whole flight over, Mikhail pacing the aisle like he wants to punch holes in the fuselage, but Dmitri’s the one who gets the ping first. His screen lights up with a private stream link, no sender, just a timestamp and three words in English: Watch closely.
He taps it open.
The feed fills with a small stone church, candles everywhere, Anya standing at the altar in white silk that looks wrong on her, too perfect, too still. Her hands shake around the bouquet. Konstantin’s next to her, tux sharp, bandage on his neck peeking out, smiling like he already owns the rest of her life. The priest’s voice crackles through the speaker, thin and formal.
“She’s saying the vows,” Dmitri says, voice flat but eyes like knives. “We have maybe fifteen minutes.”
We’re already rolling. Three blacked-out SUVs tear down back roads toward St. Petersburg outskirts, gravel spitting under tires. Viktor drives the lead one, knuckles bone-white, muttering prayers and death threats in the same breath. I’m in the back with Dmitri and Lucky, Blade and Tank in the middle rig, every gun we smuggled loaded and chambered. My pulse is a hammer in my throat.
The church appears through the trees, old gray stone, guards at every entrance. Dmitri doesn’t brake. “Front doors. Hard entry. No hesitation.”
We bail before the vehicles stop. Gunfire cracks immediately, guards on the steps opening up. Lucky drops the first with a suppressed round to the knee, the man screams and folds. Blade puts two clean in another’s chest. I’m running, boots pounding stone, Dmitri matching me stride for stride, Viktor and Mikhail right behind. We hit the doors like a wrecking ball, kicking them wide, splintered wood flying.
Inside it’s chaos. More guards rush us from the sides. I slam the butt of my pistol into one’s jaw, feel the bone give, spin and drop another with a double tap to center mass. Dmitri moves like smoke, every shot precise, no wasted rounds. Lucky’s laughing low and feral, covering our left flank. Blade yells “Clear!” as he drops the last one blocking the center aisle.
