The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

The others frown at the boy who interrupted, like disapproving older brothers.

My observation tells me there’s an order of command here, beginning with Demyan, and the others fall in line. I’m surmising this one must be a new recruit who has to learn the ropes. “Then perhaps you have not yet learned your place at this table,” Demyan continues, ruthlessly chastising. “Go. You are dismissed. Clean the cars and report back to me when you’ve done this task.”

I blink in surprise, initially taken aback by how stern he is with the boy for such a small infraction. But as I think about it, I realize that the lives they lead are dangerous, and the order of command must be obeyed. If not, perhaps they all bear the penalty.

His cheeks flushed, with a bowed head, the boy goes to leave the room. He’s been kicked out of class, as it were. But when he reaches the door, his hand still on the doorknob, deafening booms ring out. It takes me a second to realize it’s gunshots.

I look around me in shock as chairs fall to the floor while they all get to their feet. Everyone already has a gun in hand, looking at Demyan, who’s spitting out orders like a lieutenant in war. I don’t understand what’s going on, when the door to the library swings open. It all happens as if in slow motion. There’s a man running in here with a gun, a crazed expression in his eyes. There’s noise and chaos and gunshots blast glass into fragments. I’m shoved to the ground and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Demyan. He pushed me to the floor. He’s on top of me. The other men defend themselves, but he’s my protection. The man that took me, that will hurt me, is covering my whole body with his. My heart races at the sounds of yelling, screaming, more gunshots.

And then, silence. It all happened in mere minutes. Seconds pass, then Demyan’s voice rings out. To my surprise, he’s speaking in English for the first time since we entered this room.

Does he want me to know what he’s saying?

“Who’s hurt?” He’s sitting up but doesn’t release me, pushing one hand on my back to keep me in place.

“Anatoly,” one man says.

Demyan lets go of my shoulder. I should stay here, but I can’t help but want to see what just happened. I sit up, and look around the room. The men all appear fine, though one holds a crimson hand to his shoulder, and the room is wrecked. Shattered glass lies on the floor, books tattered, and the table is upturned. I gasp when I realize the two men who look like brothers are holding a man between them like a hostage. His hands are behind his back and he glares at everyone, blood dripping from his mouth, one eye swollen shut. After a few failed attempts at flailing his way out of their arms, he sits back in defeat. Demyan glares, then nods to the two men to hold their assailant. My stomach tightens. Will I bear witness to murder?

Demyan is leaning over the boy he scolded not moments ago. Gently, so gently it stirs something in me I don’t like, he lifts the boy’s head. My heart aches. He’s just a boy, barely old enough to go to college. His beard hasn’t even come in fully yet, his body still rounded and boyish. Demyan speaks in Russian again, holding the boy under the chin and looking in his eyes with a tenderness that belies what just happened. The boy coughs and sputters and blood-flecked spittle forms in the corner of his mouth.

Demyan shouts over his shoulder in Russian, and this I understand from visiting Calina. He’s calling for a doctor.

Heavy footsteps sound in the hallway. Demyan leans the boy on his back, then whips off his own shirt, balling it in his fist and pressing it to the boy’s chest. It stains crimson immediately. I close my eyes as nausea rolls over me in waves.

Demyan’s cursing and people are running in the hallway. Demyan shouts again, a hoarse order, but even I know it’s too late. I open my eyes when I hear a strangled cry. The boy slumps to the ground.

Lifeless. That quickly, his life has been snuffed out like a candle with one strong gust of wind.

Demyan’s jaw clenches, but all he does is run his fingers over the boy’s eyes to close them, then bows his head. Surely a man like him doesn’t pray?

A beat of silence passes before he turns to the two men holding the hostage. Holding the man who just killed one of their own. I can’t breathe. I’m trembling at what I just saw, shaken with the knowledge their justice will be swift and merciless. Still, he speaks in English. “Find out everything you can,” he says in a voice devoid of emotion. Robotic. “Use whatever methods you must. Find out who sent him. Hurt him, but do not kill him.” His eyes narrow. “Leave that for me.”