Page 79 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

A hail of automatic gunfire shatters the glass of the high office windows to our left, the shards raining down onto the concrete slipway below.

Mikhail doesn't stop. He keeps his grip on my arm, his body shoving through the smoke as he forces us down the narrow metal catwalk toward the rear exit. Ekaterina is weeping, her boots slipping on the metal grates, but he drags her along like a ragdoll.

"Let her go, Mikhail!" I twist in his grip, my free left hand clawing at his face, my nails searching for the pink, puckered flesh of his scar. "She has nothing to do with this! Take me and let her stay!"

He turns, his face contorted in a sick, manic fury, and backhands me across the mouth.

The force of the blow snaps my head to the side, my split lip opening up again, a warm, thick rush of blood filling my mouth. I stumble against the metal railing, but before I can fall, he hauls me back, his fingers locking around my collar. "You don't get to make deals, Via. You’re the reason my house was bombed. You’re the reason I’m carrying this face. You both go on the boat, or I put a bullet in her head right here."

Ekaterina looks up at me through her tangled dark hair, her eyes wide, terrified, and completely silent. She doesn't scream. She doesn't beg. She just holds onto my sleeve, her small hand the only anchor I have left in this screaming hell.

We burst through the rear service exit, the cool, damp evening air hitting my face like a cold splash of water.

The slipway leads straight down to a wooden finger pier that projects into the dark, misty river. The fog off the channel is thick, a grey, moving wall that limits the visibility to a few yards, but I can see the outline of a sleek, black motorboat idling at the end of the dock, its twin outboards rumbling with a low, wet vibration.

Two Russo enforcers are standing near the cleats, their rifles held low as they scan the misty wood.

"Get them in the cabin!" Mikhail shouts, his voice cracking as we reach the damp wood of the pier. "Cast off the lines! Now!"

"We’re clear, Mikhail!" one of the guards shouts back, his hand reaching out to grab Ekaterina’s arm. "But Kovalevskii’s sweepers are at the eastern gate! We have to move!"

"Mikhail!"

The voice carries through the shifting grey fog, low, gravelly, and carrying a heavy, familiar weight that makes the blood in my veins instantly turn to ice.

A figure steps out from the shadow of the rusted fuel tanks at the base of the pier.

It isn't Ilya.

It’s my father.

Petr Denisov stands in the mist, his dark coat hanging open to reveal a heavy bulletproof vest, his grey hair damp with the fog. He isn't holding his cane today. He’s holding a heavy black submachine gun in both hands, his face pale, tight, and lined with a exhaustion that looks older than the city. His eyes don't look at Mikhail, and they don't look at the boat.

They lock onto mine.

"Via," he says, his voice quiet, steady, and completely devoid of the old, arrogant pride I’ve known my entire life.

The two Russo guards near the cleats spin, their rifles rising toward his chest, but Petr is faster.

The submachine gun in his hands barks, a rapid, deafening spit-spit-spit of muzzle flashes lighting up the grey fog. The two guards are thrown backward by the impact, their bodies hitting the wooden planks of the pier before sliding silently into the dark, oily water of the channel.

"Petr!" Mikhail shrieks, his face turning a dark, splotchy purple.

He spins, his heavy black pistol rising, aligning directly with my father’s chest.

"No!" I scream, throwing my entire weight against Mikhail’s arm, my heels dragging against the wet wood of the dock. "No! Stop!"

Mikhail is stronger. He shoves his elbow hard into my chest, the blow driving the air from my lungs, throwing me back onto the wet planks.

He pulls the trigger.

Bang.

The concussive slap of the shot is deafening, the bright flash lighting up the scarred ruin of his face.

My father steps forward, his boots heavy on the wet wood, his body moving in a slow, deliberate line that puts him directly between Mikhail’s barrel and me.

Bang. Bang.