Page 80 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Two more shots tear through the quiet fog.

The impact of the rounds throws Petr backward, his body shuddering as the bullets rip through the fabric of his coat, the black vest beneath useless against the close-range fire. He stumbles, his SMG clattering onto the wooden planks, and falls heavily onto his knees.

"Father!"

The shriek tears from my throat, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated agony that doesn't sound like my own voice. I scramble forward on my hands and knees, my fingers slipping on the wet wood, until I reach his side.

He slides flat onto his back, his chest rising and falling in short, wet gasps.

The dark, thick crimson is already blooming across his white shirt, spreading fast, soaking through the wool of his coat. It catches the green silk of my dress as I pull his head onto my lap, the bright red blood staining the emerald fabric in a heavy, wet smear that looks exactly like the wedding train at the cathedral.

It’s happening again.

The incense. The smoke. The blood on the floor.

I’m standing in the greenhouse, holding my mother’s hand while she turns cold. The freeze is trying to take my limbs, the dark, heavy panic rushing up from my stomach to lock my throat, to turn me back into the fragile, broken girl who could do nothing but watch her world burn.

No.

A sudden, violent wave of white-hot rage explodes in my chest, burning through the panic, clearing the cold fog in my brain. I’m not seven years old anymore. I’m Viallentinka Kovalevskii. I’m carrying his child, my father is bleeding out in my lap, and I’m done running from the ghosts of this city.

My father looks up at me, his grey eyes glassy, a thin line of red running from the corner of his mouth as he tries to speak. He doesn't have the breath. He slowly reaches up, his cold, wet fingers touching the purple mark Ilya left on my neck, his thumb tracing the bruised skin with a light, final pressure.

"Live... my little one," he whispers, his voice a low, wet rattle.

His hand drops flat onto the wood, his eyes turning wide, vacant, and staring blankly up at the grey fog.

The silence that follows is absolute.

"He’s dead, Via," Mikhail says, his voice carrying a sick, quiet satisfaction as he steps closer, his pistol pointing down at my head. "Your family is finished. Now get on the boat."

I don't look up at him.

My eyes drop to the wooden planks next to my father’s hand. The black submachine gun is lying there, the metal cool and damp with the fog, the safety still cleared.

In a single, fluid motion that I don't even think about, my hand slides onto the cold, textured grip of the weapon. I roll away from my father’s body, my knees hitting the wet wood, and swing the barrel upward, my finger locking around the steel of the trigger.

I stare straight into the scarred, smiling face of the ghost.

I pull the trigger.

32

ILYA

The wet wood of the cargo barge bumps against the rusted steel of the pier, a low, metallic groan vibrating straight through my boots.

The fog is a thick, grey wall, rolling off the river in heavy, damp layers that smell of oil, rotting seaweed, and cold salt water. Every breath I draw is a hot blade in my left lung, the black duct tape wrapped around my dislocated shoulder and ribs keeping my chest tight, suffocating, and screaming with agony. The snapped stitches along my thigh are leaking steadily, the warm, sticky blood soaking through my trousers, but I don't care. I let the pain burn. I need the fire.

Lev slides his hand along the wet railing, his submachine gun held low, his face pale under the grey light. "Visibility is down to five yards, Pakhan. If they have thermal scopes on the crane tower, they’re blind in this mess anyway."

"They’re blind because they’re arrogant," I growl, my voice a flat, dry rattle. "Mikhail thinks he’s a king today. He thinks he’s already won."

"The old man’s team is heading toward the dry dock," Lev says, pointing a finger toward the silhouette of the massive corrugated iron warehouses in the distance. "They’re going to draw the main patrol. We clear the slipway."

"We clear everything," I say, my fingers tightening around the cold, textured grip of my rifle.

I step off the wet wood of the barge, my boot hitting the rusted iron plates of the pier with a soft, hollow thud. The dislocated joint of my left shoulder is a dead, throbbing weight, but the tape holds it secure against my ribs. I can only use my right arm to aim, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.