Page 65 of Cruel Juliet

Good. That means he won’t put himself at risk. I’m not losing the biggest paycheck of the year because Lykov was too hot-headed to realize his aim was busted.

I leave him where he is, roll behind the wheel well, and fire back toward the muzzle flashes in the dark.

I pop up, fire twice, and drop the first shooter even as a bullet skims across my own shoulder.

Pain rips through me, hot and sharp, but I push it aside. I adjust, aim again, and put the second bastard on the ground.

“Mikhael!” I roar toward the club. “Get out here, now! Bring men!”

The back door slams open. Footsteps pound across the concrete as backup rushes in. My men scatter into position, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.

I move forward, gun still raised, and scan the perimeter.

Two bodies lie sprawled near the White Russian’s entrance, weapons still in their hands. The smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air.

I kick one rifle away, then roll the first man over with my boot.

Dead. No question.

The second is younger. His eyes are open, glassy, but I recognize the face. My stomach knots as the light from the security lamp cuts across his features.

Feliks Danilo.

Sima’s middle brother.

28

SIMA

I wake to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, quick. More than one set.

I drag myself upright. The house is never loud at this hour. Unless Petyr is home, it’s like living in a mausoleum. Ghosts are more likely to make a ruckus than Anya here. Or, God forbid, Little Miss Perfect, Kira.

But these aren’t ghosts. Or a dream. It’s not ordinary.

My gut tells me something’s wrong.

I turn to look at the clock on the nightstand. 3 A.M. He should have been back hours ago. He always has business at night, granted, but this late? It’s not normal. If he’d been planning to stay out this long, he would have told me.

The steps move past my door and down the corridor toward the stairs. A cold weight settles in my stomach.

My hands start to shake around the duvet. Somethingiswrong. I can tell before I even move.

I push back the blankets and sit up. The floor is cold under my feet, but I hardly notice. My pulse beats hard against my ribs. A million apocalyptic scenarios push into my mind, each one worse than the last.

I pull my robe around me and walk to the door.

The hallway lights are dim. I stop and listen. Voices drift up from downstairs, low and tense. There are several of them.

I can’t make out the words, but the sound alone tells me enough. I know an emergency Bratva summit when I hear one. I’ve grown up being woken by this same exact situation, and it was never good.

Once, when I was little, I made the mistake of wandering downstairs on a night just like this. Dad was standing in the hallway. He had a gun in his hand. I was so young, I thought he must have gotten back from a hunting trip.

Then I saw the body on the floor.

“What’s wrong with him?”

That’s when Dad finally noticed me.