Page 66 of Ruthless Vow
Belov’s men split instantly, some rushing toward the side entrance, some holding the front. They’re trying to keep us out. They’re trying to keep the guests contained. They’re trying to keep the bride secure.
They’re failing.
A scream slices through the air from inside, then another. I hear the sound of chairs scraping and footsteps running. I hear glass shatter. The wedding is turning into a stampede.
Sergei stays close to my shoulder. “We need to get inside before they move her.”
“Let’s go,” I answer.
Belov’s men fire again. One of my shooters goes down near the front barrier, hit in the side. He collapses hard, and the man behind him drags him back without breaking formation. No one stops. No one panics. The dead weight gets moved and the line keeps advancing.
I reach the front doors covered in white fabric and flowers. The sight makes something cold and vicious settle behind my ribs. Mikhail dressed up his violence in lace. I rip the door open hard enough that the fabric tears.
The sound on the other side reaches me instantly. Hundreds of panicked voices. Screams. Shouts. The echo of gunfire in a large enclosed space. The smell of perfume mixing with sweat, spilled alcohol, smoke, and blood.
The interior is exactly what I expected. A long aisle is set up down the center. Tables are arranged along the sides with whitelinens and expensive centerpieces. Men in suits are ducking behind chairs. Women are literally clutching their pearls and crying. Some are crawling under tables. Some are frozen, too shocked to move.
Belov’s security teams are posted at key points, but they’re scrambling now, caught between stopping us and controlling a crowd that has become a liability.
I step inside and the world narrows. My gun stays up. My eyes move fast. I shoot only at Mikhail’s men. I’m careful about that. I know what I came to do.
A guard pops up behind a table with his weapon raised. I put him down. Another tries to rush the aisle. Sergei takes him out before he makes three steps. A third man fires blindly toward the door, hitting nothing but air. One of my men drops him easily.
People scream louder as the bodies fall. They push toward exits, tripping over each other. A woman in a red dress falls and is nearly trampled. One of Grinkov’s men grabs her and yanks her upright, not because he cares about her, but because he wants the crowd moving in a direction that clears his line of sight.
I move down the aisle like it’s a corridor in a war zone. Sergei stays tight on my left. Two men cover behind. The rest press in from the side entrance, forcing Belov’s security inward and breaking their perimeter into pockets.
A gunshot cracks close to my ear. A bullet clips a support beam, spraying splinters. I pivot and see a shooter on the balcony level, tucked behind the railing drapery. I fire once. He drops out of sight. I keep moving.
The officiant is nowhere to be seen. The arch of flowers at the front is still standing, pristine and absurd amid the chaos. A microphone lies on the floor, abandoned.
Someone yells my name from behind.
“Viktor, right side.”
I shift, firing toward movement near the tables. A man goes down. Another crawls away, clutching his leg, leaving a smear of blood across the white floor. I step over it without looking.
A shape appears at the front of the aisle, and my body reacts before my brain finishes the thought. It’s a woman wearing white. She isn’t moving. She’s standing still like she wants to be taken out.
For a moment the gunfire becomes distant. The screaming becomes a dull roar. The room tilts, and the only thing that stays fixed is her.
The dress is expensive and structured, meant to make her look delicate. She’s never been delicate. She’s a warrior. Even in that dress, even with her hair pinned and her face made up, she looks like herself. Her posture is rigid. Her chin is lifted. Her eyes are sharp.
She doesn’t look broken. She looks determined. She turns her head slightly, and her eyes find mine across the destruction. For a second, I see something flicker there.
The crowd around her shifts. Guards tighten in a semicircle. Someone grabs her arm. Mikhail is near her, dressed in dark suit, calm amidst the chaos, as if this is still his stage and he still believes he can control the script.
He leans close to her like he’s whispering something. My vision goes hot at the edges. Sergei’s voice cuts through the narrowing.
“Viktor, you need to keep moving. If you stop here, they will reposition.”
“I see her,” I answer.
Sergei stays firm. “Then get her so we can get the hell out of here.”
That’s the only thing I want.
I push forward.
