The look in Ivy’s eyes tells me everything before the first shot is even fired. Wide, fear-stricken, wet with guilt. Her mouth forms the words—I set you up—but I already know. I’ve known since the moment she asked me to come here that this would be the final decision of Mikhail’s plan.
Even if I didn’t know beforehand, I’d know this had him written all over it. His men always have a particular stink to them, a rhythm to their movements that they can never quite shake. His father had been the same way.
Thirteen secondsis all the warning I get through the comms in my ear before the bullets start to fly.
I grab Ivy, my arm like a steel band around her waist, and throw us both down onto the floor. My weight flips the table on its side. Silverware clatters, wine glasses shatter on the floor next to us, the linen cloth half drapes over us as we crash to the floor. I shove her down beneath me, pressingher head against my chest to keep her protected, covering as much of her as I can before the storm actually breaks.
The first bullet whistles past where her skull had been a second earlier, splintering the chair into pieces.
My other hand is already in motion.
I reach inside my jacket, fingers curling around the grip of my gun. In one smooth motion, I draw and fire, the recoil biting into my palm. The bullet catches the waiter coming around the partition, the one who smiled too tightly as he set down our menus, square in the chest.
He staggers back, eyes wide, mouth red with surprise.
Another figure barrels out of the kitchen, apron flapping from a gun being drawn from the front pocket. Another one of Mikhail’s men dressed like staff. My second shot slams into his throat, two rapid-fire bullets. He gurgles and drops, disappearing into a heap of white fabric and red stain.
The room beyond the partition erupts into a panic.
Screams and plates shattering are all I hear. Diners stampede toward the front doors, chairs scraping across the floor so loudly, I can barely hear my own breathing. But above it all, I hear the echo of more shots bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and the heavy boots of men who are not here to eat coming toward us.
Ivy whimpers under me, clutching at my jacket. She doesn’t understand yet that this is all according to plan. That I never walk into any room without an idea for how to burn it down.
I haul her up by the arm. “Move! To the back!”
She stumbles, dazed, her legs not cooperating. I half drag, half shove her toward the back of the restaurant, through the narrow aisle that leads to the kitchens. My ears ring from gunfire going off behind us and my chest buzzes with adrenaline.
The shadows ahead stir and from them, Andrey emerges. He’s already got his gun drawn, his movements quick and efficient.
“Take her!” I bark, shoving Ivy into his arms.
“No!” she cries, twisting, clawing at me. “Maksim! Don’t! They’re going to kill you!”
Her desperation nearly shatters me. It pierces me in a way the bullets can’t. I grip her face for one hard second, forcing her eyes to mine. “Go now. I’ll be fine.”
She sobs, fighting me, but Andrey is already hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her toward the back door. I watch her disappear, then I turn back around with my gun raised.
The front of the restaurant is chaotic with overturned tables and glass everywhere. The flash of muzzles has my attention swinging toward the front doors as more of Mikhail’s men storm in, driving back toward the alcove where they thought we’d be cornered.
Katya bursts in through the side entrance like fire embodied, knives strapped along her thighs. Her guns bark twice as she fires them off before she ducks behind a column to duck a muzzle aimed at her.
A man drops to his knees nearby, one of the hosts who’djumped in the middle of the fight, clutching his ruined chest.
Roman follows close behind, his own gun leveled on two men running to the back. The blast rattles the walls, spraying the floor with flesh and blood.
We fall into rhythm, the three of us. Years of fighting together have burned the pattern into our bones. I move forward, Katya and I laying down fire while we pick off stragglers. Ahead, Roman clears a wider path with brutal efficiency.
Some of them scramble for the exit, but none of us let them all get away. I lunge forward, grab one by the back of his collar, and slam him against the wall. My gun presses to his temple before he even has a chance to beg.
“Where is Mikhail?” I snarl.
His eyes roll with panic. He opens his mouth.
“Right here,Pakhan.”
The voice freezes me for a single, solitary moment. That familiar mocking tone so similar to his father’s flashes me back seven years ago in the blink of an eye. I turn around with my gun raised, every muscle taut, and there he is.
Mikhail.
