Page 67 of Ruthless Vow
Belov’s men fire from the left. A bullet cracks into the floor near my foot. I don’t slow. One of my men goes down behind me with a grunt. Another grabs him and drags him backward. Sergei fires twice, dropping the shooter who tried to pin us. The table behind that shooter splinters. A glass centerpiece shatters.
A woman screams again, higher this time, and I don’t even look to see who it is. My focus is a straight line between Anya and me.
Someone steps into my path with a gun. I shoot him in the chest and keep moving as his body collapses into the aisle. Sergei mutters a curse under his breath. My men tighten formation again. Anya’s gaze stays on me.
She’s surrounded, but she’s still upright. She’s still composed. She’s still refusing to give Mikhail what he wants.
The moment I get close enough to see the tension in her jaw, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and the way her hand hovers near her abdomen like she’s anchoring herself, something inside me breaks loose.
She’s mine. The child she’s carrying is mine. Mikhail Grinkov messed with the wrong fucking guy.
28
ANYA
The moment the lights go dark, I know my decision has been made for me. Someone’s come to interrupt the wedding. Someone who I presume is Viktor.
The first wave of screaming starts on the far side of the room, near the doors. It moves across the tables like a ripple. People duck under white linens and topple chairs, knocking over centerpieces that explode into glass and water and flowers. A woman in black lace screams someone’s name and grabs at his sleeve, dragging him toward an exit that is already blocked by bodies. Someone else shoves her and she stumbles, then drops to her knees and crawls away.
The aisle that was meant to feel ceremonial becomes a corridor of chaos. The draped fabric overhead sways as people slam into support beams. A candle display goes down in a crash of metal and flame, and someone in a suit yelps as fire brushes his pantleg.
The guards on the perimeter don’t move like the guests. They don’t bolt. They don’t freeze. They pivot and reposition, creating lines of sight, using overturned tables as cover and moving thecrowd out of their shooting lanes with rough hands. They grab wrists and shoulders and shove people down, not because they care if someone gets trampled. They care about clear angles. They care about stopping the assault.
Mikhail turns his head slightly, eyes still calm, and speaks low enough that the nearest guards can hear him without anyone else catching every word.
“Seal the exits,” he says in a tone that is far too calm and polite for the current slough of chaos.
A burst of gunfire cracks again, closer now. I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting metal, then glass, then something softer that makes a man cry out in a way that turns my stomach. The screaming spreads again as the crowd gets the message that this isn’t just a warning shot. This is an invasion, and no one is safe just because they wore a suit.
I keep my chin lifted and my face blank.
Still, my eyes immediately track movement through the chaos. Men in dark clothing are pushing into the venue from the front and from the side, moving with purpose. They don’t fire wildly. They fire in controlled bursts, and only at Mikhail’s men.
Mikhail’s security returns fire, and the room becomes a series of pockets. Guests scatter in clumps, crawling behind tables or pushing toward corners that are less exposed. Security teams form tight clusters, firing from cover, communicating with hand signals and quick verbal orders. The only light is coming from fairy lights that must be battery-operated. It gives the whole violent scene an almost whimsical glow. It’s all such an absurd juxtaposition.
A man in a gray suit tries to sprint up the aisle, maybe thinking he can reach the side exit before anyone notices. He makes it three steps before a bullet catches him in the leg. He drops hard, crashing into the aisle runner and grabbing at his thigh with both hands as blood pours through his fingers. He screams and tries to crawl, leaving a streak behind him that ruins the illusion of white purity Mikhail decorated this place with. Two women step back from him instinctively, horror on their faces, and one of them falls into a chair when her knees give out.
Mikhail’s attention stays fixed somewhere past the destruction, toward the door where the assault is thickest. He’s listening, calculating, deciding whether this is a rival crew hoping to embarrass him or this is something more direct. His grip on my wrist tightens again, and it reminds me that in his mind, I am the anchor point of this entire war. This building is just a stage. I’m the objective.
He leans slightly toward one of his men.
“Find out if Kovalev is here,” he says, still calm.
The man’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second before he looks away. He knows. They all know. This is not a random attack. No one storms a Grinkov wedding because they want to make a statement. They storm a Grinkov wedding because they want something they cannot get any other way.
They’re here for me.
A sharp crack of gunfire hits close to the front, then another, then the sound of a door being forced open hard enough that the hinges scream. The crowd surges again, and the entire center aisle shifts like it’s breathing. A chandelier-style light fixture swings, and glass droplets from it rain down like tiny knives.Someone screams and covers their head, and I don’t blame them. The room is turning into a slaughterhouse and no one is brave when they realize bravery won’t stop a bullet.
A guard near me lifts his weapon and aims toward the aisle, and Mikhail snaps, “Not near her,” in a voice that still never rises, which is almost more terrifying than yelling. The guard adjusts his angle immediately, obedient.
Mikhail will let the guests die if it serves him. He will not let me get hit unless it becomes necessary. It’s not because he loves me, though. It’s because he refuses to lose.
A cluster of men pushes down the aisle, weapons up, firing in measured bursts. They move like they’ve done this together before. They move like they trust each other. Then I see him.
Viktor is in the middle of that line, tall and broad and terrifyingly focused. He isn’t scanning the room like he’s worried about being shot. He’s scanning for me, and the second his eyes find mine across the cacophony, something in my chest tightens so hard it feels like it might break. Yet as relieved as I am, I’m furious at him for risking his life like this. All he’s done is put himself in Mikhail’s crosshairs.
He locks eyes with me for one moment, and the room feels smaller. The gunfire feels farther away. The screaming becomes a dull roar, like someone turned the volume down. His gaze flicks down my body once, fast and controlled, checking that I’m upright, checking that I’m breathing, checking that I’m still in one piece. His mouth tightens, and I see something dark move behind his eyes.
