Page 30 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter twenty-seven

The Siege

M ila

The first explosion rocks the house hard enough to throw us both out of bed, and I land awkwardly on my hands and knees, my enlarged belly making it impossible to move with any grace.

"Stay down," Alexei orders, already reaching for the gun he keeps in the nightstand. "This isn't random."

"Someone coming for us?" I ask, though we both know the answer.

"Roman and Elena's surviving allies, probably. They've finally made their coordinated move."

Another explosion, closer this time, followed by the sound of automatic weapons fire from multiple directions. Through our bedroom windows, I can see muzzle flashes in the gardens and the orange glow of fires that shouldn't exist on our carefully maintained grounds.

"How many?" I ask, struggling to get to my feet with Alexei's help.

"Unknown. But they brought serious firepower."

His phone is already buzzing with reports from Boris and the security teams positioned around the estate. The news isn't good—this isn't a probing attack or a message. This is a full-scale assault designed to eliminate the Morozov family permanently.

"Command center," Alexei says, helping me toward the reinforced room he had built when we first learned about the twins. "You can coordinate communications from there while I handle the defense."

"I'm not hiding in a bunker while people try to kill us."

"You're protecting our children while I protect our home."

"Same thing."

"Exactly the same thing."

The command center is a technological marvel—banks of monitors showing security feeds from around the estate, encrypted communication systems, and enough backup power to run for days if necessary.

It's also blast-proof, climate-controlled, and designed to keep a pregnant woman and her unborn children safe during exactly this kind of situation.

"Boris, report," Alexei says into his headset as I settle into the chair designed to accommodate my pregnancy.

"Twenty-plus hostiles, sir. Coordinated assault from three directions. They've breached the outer perimeter and are advancing on the main house."

"Casualties?"

"Two wounded on our side, unknown enemy losses. Sir, these aren't random criminals. This is organized, professional. Someone with serious tactical experience is coordinating this."

"Who's leading them?" I ask, pulling up security feeds on the main monitors.

"Unknown commander, but the radio chatter suggests someone calling himself 'Pavel.' Russian accent, military terminology."

"Pavel," Alexei repeats grimly. "Roman's cousin. I thought he was dead."

"Apparently not," Boris responds. "And apparently he's been planning this assault for months. This is revenge for Roman and Elena, sir. Multiple families coordinating together."

"How many families?" Alexei asks.

"At least three, possibly more. Everyone who lost money or territory when Roman's network was destroyed."

The screens show the scope of the attack—armed figures moving through our gardens with military precision, explosive charges taking out security positions, vehicles burning in what used to be our peaceful sanctuary.

"Dmitri's en route with reinforcements," Boris reports. "ETA twenty minutes."

"We need to hold for twenty minutes," Alexei says grimly.

"Can we?" I ask, watching our security teams fall back to defensive positions around the main house.

"We're about to find out."

The next hour is the longest of my life.

I coordinate communications between our various security teams while Alexei moves between defensive positions, directing the battle that's turning our home into a war zone.

The babies are restless, probably responding to my elevated heart rate and stress levels, but they seem to understand that now isn't the time for dramatic movements.

"North wall is compromised," Boris's voice crackles through the speakers. "They're inside the house."

"Fall back to the inner perimeter," Alexei orders. "Protect the stairwell and elevator access."

"Sir, they're using shaped charges. Military-grade equipment. Pavel's people came prepared for a siege."

"Then we use military-grade responses."

I watch through the security feeds as the battle moves inside our home. Men with assault rifles advancing through hallways I walk every day. Explosions destroying rooms where our children will grow up. The beautiful foyer where we welcomed guests becoming a killing ground.

"Mila," Alexei's voice comes through my private channel. "How are you feeling? Physically?"

"Scared but fine. The babies are moving but not distressed."

"Any contractions? Any signs of premature labor?"

"No. Why?"

"Because stress can trigger early labor, and if that happens during this—"

"It won't happen. I won't let it happen."

But even as I say the words, I can feel the tension in my body, the way my muscles are clenching in response to the violence surrounding us. Thirty-two weeks is still premature, still dangerous for the twins, but not as catastrophic as the twenty-eight weeks we'd feared earlier.

"Dmitri's here," Boris announces, and I can see on the monitors as fresh reinforcements flood through the gates. "Coordinated counter-attack in three... two... one..."

The tide turns quickly once our allies arrive.

Pavel's coalition was counting on surprise and superior numbers, but they weren't prepared for the combined firepower of multiple Bratva families working together.

Within thirty minutes, the gunfire stops, the explosions end, and the estate settles into the eerie quiet that follows violence.

"Casualties?" Alexei asks as he makes his way back to the command center.

"Four wounded on our side, none critical. Twelve enemy dead, three captured for questioning."

"Pavel?"

"Escaped during the retreat. Professional withdrawal, sir. He's definitely military-trained."

I look up from the monitors where I've been tracking the battle's progress. "Escaped?"

"Pavel's smart," Alexei explains, his face grim. "He coordinated this attack to test our defenses and gather intelligence about our capabilities. Now he knows exactly what he's facing."

"Which means?"

"Which means the real attack is still coming."

"When?"

"When we're least prepared for it. When our guard is down. When we think we've won."

The implications make my blood run cold. All of this—the violence, the destruction, the hours of terror—was just Pavel's way of gathering intelligence about our capabilities.

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"We prepare for the real war. And we make sure you and the babies are somewhere Pavel can't reach you when it comes."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it might be time to consider temporary relocation until this threat is eliminated."

"No."

"Mila—"

"No, Alexei. We're not running. We're not letting Pavel drive us out of our home."

"Even if staying means risking the twins?"

"Especially then. Our children are going to inherit this legacy, and I won't have them grow up thinking their parents ran from threats."

"And if the next attack is worse?"

"Then we'll be ready for it."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because we're partners in this. Because we have allies who will stand with us. Because Pavel made a critical mistake tonight."

"What mistake?"

"He showed us his hand. Now we know what we're facing, and we can plan accordingly."

Alexei settles into the chair beside me, and I can see the exhaustion and worry weighing on him. Tonight was just the beginning, and we both know it.

"The babies," he says, his hand moving to rest on my stomach. "How are they really?"

"Active but not distressed. They seem to know their mama is stressed but safe."

"And you? Really?"

"Scared. Angry. Determined to make Pavel pay for turning our home into a battlefield."

"In that order?"

"All at the same time."

He leans over to kiss me, and I can taste smoke and gunpowder on his lips—the flavors of war that have no place in a nursery or a marriage bed.

"We're going to get through this," he promises.

"I know."

"And when we do, we're going to build something so strong that our children never have to experience anything like tonight."

"I know that too."

"And Pavel Volkov is going to learn that threatening the Morozov family was the last mistake he'll ever make."

"Good. Because these babies deserve to be born into a world where their biggest worry is choosing between Harvard and Yale."

"Not staying alive?"

"Never just staying alive."

The monitors around us show the damage Pavel's test attack inflicted on our home.

Broken windows, scorched walls, gardens torn up by explosives.

But they also show something else—our people working together to clean up the destruction, to rebuild what was damaged, to prepare for whatever comes next.

"Tomorrow we start planning Pavel's destruction," Alexei says.

"Tonight we make sure our children know they're safe and loved."

"Even in the middle of a war?"

"Especially in the middle of a war."

The twins choose that moment to move, a flutter of activity that reminds us both what we're really fighting for. Not territory or revenge or family honor, but the right to raise our children in peace.

Pavel Volkov has made this personal.

Now he's going to learn what that really means.