Page 159 of Marrying the Savage

A shot cracks through the room before Nikolai reaches him. The bullet hits the ceiling, shattering one of the recessed lights overhead. Sparks rain down over the display area, and the staff scream again as my men force them lower behind the counter. Nikolai’s return shot is quieter in my mind somehow, cleaner, because it does what it’s supposed to do. The Sokolov man jerks back against the floor, clutching his shoulder, the gun sliding away beneath a clothing rack.

Now the room is truly chaos.

My men spread across the gallery, securing the front doors and forcing Dmitri’s people toward the center where there’s nowhere useful to run. Dmitri’s last guard pulls a blade from his sleeve and slashes at Lev, catching fabric and skin along his forearm, but Lev doesn’t give him space to cut twice. He steps inside the reach of the knife, hooks the man’s wrist, and breaks his arm against the edge of a marble display block with a sound that makes one of the saleswomen sob into her hands.

Dmitri turns away from the violence. Coward.

I see the decision form in his body before he moves: the glance toward the staff corridor, the shift of weight off the bad leg, the frantic calculation of a man who came to be seen and now wants very badly to disappear.

I go after him. He shoves a mannequin into my path as he lurches toward the side hallway, and it falls hard against a glass table, breaking into glittering pieces underfoot. I step through the mess without slowing, my eyes on the back of his head as he throws open the staff door and disappears into the corridor beyond.

Behind me, Nikolai shouts orders, but I don’t need to hear them as I take off after him.

The staff corridor is narrow, painted white, lined with supply cabinets and delivery schedules pinned neatly to a corkboard. Dmitri is halfway down it, moving faster than he should be able to, one hand braced against the wall as his wounded leg drags behind him. He glances back and sees me. There is only fear there.

“Damir,” he says, as if my name is a negotiation.

I raise my gun.

He grabs the nearest person, a young male employee in a black uniform who has chosen the worst possible place to freeze, and yanks him backward between us.

“Don’t,” Dmitri snaps.

The boy goes white.

I stop.

Dmitri’s arm locks across his throat, and his other hand fumbles under his coat, searching for a weapon that’s either gone or stuck. His breathing is ragged. Sweat slides down his temple. He’s pressing too much weight on the injured leg, and every second costs him.

“You are making things worse for yourself,” I say.

He bares his teeth. “You stole my bride.”

“I improved her prospects.”

“You think this is funny?”

“No.”

My finger rests lightly along the trigger guard.

Dmitri shifts backward, dragging the boy with him, and I move with him step for step, keeping the angle clean enough that if he exposes even two inches of skull away from the hostage, I will take them.

“You can’t kill me here,” Dmitri says.

“You keep saying things that are untrue.”

“You kill me, and my family comes for me.”

“I don’t give a fuck. They will bow to the Pakhan, as shall you.”

His face twists. He jerks the boy backward another step, trying to reach the rear door at the end of the corridor. The boy chokes, eyes wide and wet, fingers clawing at Dmitri’s sleeve. Dmitri adjusts his grip to keep control, and in that half second, his wounded leg gives.

Only slightly. Enough.

I shoot him in the shoulder. The bullet spins him sideways, and the boy drops to the floor, coughing hard. Dmitri hits the wall, screams, and fires blindly from the small pistol he finally manages to pull free. The shot goes wide, punching through a cabinet full of garment bags. He fires again, and this one comes close enough that I feel the air move past my ear.

I close the distance before he can aim a third time. My hand closes around his wrist and slams it against the wall. The pistol drops. He tries to hit me with his left hand, but there is no strength in the swing, only panic and humiliation. I catch him by the throat and drive him back against the door at the end of the corridor.