Someone pulls a gun and fires at Artem's men, who return fire. Automatic weaponry is pulled from somewhere, and the sound of it is loud and deafening in this enclosed space.
People scream, run, and even dive for cover.
People are trying to get to the exits, but Artem's men are blocking them, picking off anyone who tries to leave. Others get trampled as things go to hell.
"Saint—" Gemma tries to lift her head, and I push her down, covering her with my body.
"Stay the fuck down!" I growl.
More gunfire sprays across the room. Glass shatters around us, electricity sizzles as bullets hit string lights, and people scream and cry. It's fucking chaos. It's hell.
I cover Gemma with my body. If bullets come, they go through me first. I'm not a praying man, but I hope my own body will be enough to shield her, or at least, minimize the damage. If I die, Marcello will take over, he'll ensure she's safe. That knowledge gives me a bit of peace.
"Gem—" Her eyes are wide, terrified. "I love you."
It's a shit time to make a confession, but I need to say it. There's a lot I need to say, but as bullets flies next to us,exploding the leg of the table, causing Gemma to scream, I know I may not get another chance.
"I need you to move," I tell her, as another bullet whizzes past us. "The exit behind us is unmanned. Someone got the guard. When I say go?—"
"I'm not leaving you." Her nails dig into my arm.
"Gemma—" We do not have time to argue, but I can't force her to move if she isn't going to do it on her own. I close my eyes, cursing my wife's inability to save her own skin.
"I'm not leaving you!" Her eyes are wild. Terrified. But determined.
I look around, assessing things. She's not staying here. I allowed her to be involved in strategy, in planning. This, bullets and blood, this is where I draw the line.
Glancing around, I quickly assess the situation, the way Antonio trained me. There needs to be another way I can drag her out of here. There's no way I'll make it to the exit without covering her, and from what I see, there's no other way out.
Artem's men move with military precision.
They're executing his enemies, and anyone who pulls a weapon in their defense, is ending up in the crossfire. The smart ones are on the ground, hands visible.
This isn't a fight. It's a slaughter.
"Everyone down!" Artem's voice cuts through the chaos. "Weapons on the ground! Hands where I can see them!"
The shooting stops. Mostly. A few stragglers fire off rounds, but they're eliminated quickly.
Groans and cries fill the air. I hear someone pray in Russian.
I keep Gemma pressed to the floor, not convinced the danger has passed. I can feel her heart beating against my chest. She's scared.
"It's over," Artem says. His voice is calm as though he didn't just slaughter half the Bratva. "Igor is dead as are his captains. The rest of you have a choice—join me or join him."
It's slow, but I watch as the remaining men throw down their weapons, stand, and pledge their loyalty to Artem.
One by one. Until the warehouse is full of men pledging loyalty to the man who just murdered their Pakhan.
"Good." Artem walks through the crowd, inspecting things. "Very good. You've made the smart choice. The profitable choice." He stops at Igor's body. "Take him away. Give him a proper funeral. He was a good soldier, and he deserves to be buried with respect."
Men move, immediately, and fuck, I'm impressed. I'll admit it.
I'd fucking spit on my enemy before I buried them.
Artem barely gives Igor a second glance.
"Now." Artem claps his hands together. "We were having a party, yes? Let's continue! Music! Vodka! We celebrate new leadership!"
