Page 15 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

S unday is the only day my father pretends to be at leisure.

He's not a churchgoer, but he observes the ritual.

Brunch in the east dining room, newsprint spread like a murder, soft jazz in the background.

He wears a cardigan, of all things, and demands we join him in silence for exactly ninety minutes.

Ekaterina reads the Financial Times with a marker, circling names like a sniper.

I drink black coffee and stare at the table's reflection, counting the seconds until I can leave.

Today, the mood is brittle. My father has spent the last week on edge—calls at odd hours, men arriving in pairs, glances at the sky like he expects it to fall. Ekaterina is almost cheerful, which is never a good sign. I wonder if she knows something I don't or if she's simply high on the drama.

At noon, the grandfather clock strikes with all the subtlety of a firing squad. I flinch, and so does Ekaterina. My father does not.

Then the first shot, loud in its suddenness and far too close, shatters the calm.

It's not a car backfire. Not some idiot with a hunting license. It's the kind of sound you feel in your teeth, a pure note of violence that makes the floor vibrate. My cup rattles. My heart skips, then races.

We all freeze. For a moment there's just the echo, then the screaming starts outside, in the courtyard.

I'm up before I realize it, hands flat on the table.

Ekaterina follows, but slower. My father moves toward the hallway, pulling a pistol from a hidden pocket in the sideboard.

He checks the magazine, chambers a round, and gestures for us to follow.

There is no fear in him, only a cold efficiency that is somehow more terrifying.

He leads us into the corridor, barking orders at the guards. Two men hustle us up the main staircase, one in front, one behind. Their radios crackle in a dialect of code I never bothered to learn.

From the landing, I see them—men in black, full tactical gear, faces covered. They move in formation, sweeping the garden with disciplined arcs of gunfire. Our men are falling—red bursts on blue suits, the grass shredded to mud underfoot.

My father steps onto the balcony. I expect him to stay low, to command from cover, but he stands full height, like a general on a plinth. He shouts something, maybe a name, maybe a challenge. The men in black hesitate. Then one raises a rifle.

The shot is clean, almost gentle. My father's chest explodes in a mist of red, the spray painting the white stone railing. He staggers back, surprise in his eyes, then crumples to the ground. I can't breathe. Ekaterina screams, but the sound is far away, like a radio tuned to the wrong channel.

The guards drag us up another flight. The marble stairs are slick, my feet sliding in satin slippers. The house is suddenly alive with shouts, boots, gunfire. Doors slam. Someone yells for backup, but the only answer is static.

At the top of the stairs, they shove us into a side hall, then split, one guard with each of us, pushing us in opposite directions. I reach for Ekaterina, but she's already gone, her face a mask of shock and rage.

My guard is barely older than me. He grips my wrist too tightly, his palm sweaty, gun drawn but shaking.

He leads me through a warren of service corridors, away from the windows, toward the saferoom.

But the code panel is dead, wires cut and sparking.

The guard swears, then pivots, forcing me through the pantry and into the kitchen.

It's chaos. Blood on the floor, a line of bodies at the door.

The guard hesitates, then decides the back exit is the only option.

We sprint for it, ducking behind the steel fridge as more shots punch through the walls.

The guard fires back, wild and high. I crouch, hands over my head, heart in my throat.

The next shot is so loud it deafens me. The guard's grip goes slack. I turn to see his face—calm, almost at peace, the bullet hole perfectly round in his temple. He drops, dragging me down with him.

I can't move. I stay curled on the tile, breaths coming in shallow, animalistic gasps.

Above me, men in black sweep the room. One kicks the body aside, toeing me gently to see if I'm alive. He says something in accented Russian. I don't answer.

He grabs my arm, lifts me to my feet, and points the gun at my chest. For a second, I think he's going to kill me, right here in the kitchen. But he only drags me forward, toward the courtyard and whatever comes next.

As we pass through the hall, I see my father again. He's still on the balcony, eyes open, mouth half-formed in a curse or a prayer.

Everything smells like blood and gunpowder.

The man pushes me into the foyer, where a dozen others are rounding up the survivors. I see Ekaterina, face streaked with tears and mascara, but alive. She locks eyes with me, and for the first time in years, I see her afraid.

The world narrows to a single point. Survive. Everything else is gone, burned away by the clarity of terror.

I go limp, let the man haul me outside. The cold air slaps my face, sharp and real. I breathe, and the taste of it anchors me, keeps me from screaming.

Somewhere inside, a clock chimes. The sound is ruined, broken by the bullet that has lodged in its gears.

I want to cry, but nothing comes out. I just keep moving, one step at a time, into whatever hell waits at the end of the drive.

I have been manhandled before, but never like this—never with the indifference of a man moving a sack of flour.

The gunman's grip is iron, but not cruel.

He is a function, not a person. My legs are noodles, slipping on the flagstones, toes losing feeling.

I remember, as I am dragged, that I am still barefoot.

The cold gnaws upward, a slow, biting crawl.

In the front garden, bodies litter the gravel like upturned dolls.

None of them are family. Not yet. The gunman steers me toward a waiting van, engine idling, driver masked.

The estate's front gates are open, security lights blaring, sirens audible in the distance. Police, maybe. Maybe just an ambulance.

The man's grip falters as he scans for threats. He glances back, calculating. He is young. I see the curve of his jaw under the balaclava, a scar along the wrist holding me. I twist my arm, sudden and vicious, dropping to the ground so my weight surprises him. For one millisecond, he loses me.

I am running.

Across the drive, slipping on the frosted grass, through a side door I know better than my own name.

Into the kitchen. The world narrows to the clang of pots, the staccato crack of gunfire, the copper stink of blood.

I barrel into the prep table, nearly overturning it.

My foot snags on a chef's knife. I step on it, slicing a perfect line through the arch of my right foot.

I scream, but only once. The pain is good, grounding.

Voices thunder behind me, men shouting in Russian and something else—maybe Chechen.

I grab the handle of the fridge, try to swing it open, but my hands are slick with blood.

I slip, fall to my knees, scramble for traction.

In the chaos, I knock a tray of glasses to the floor.

The shattering is magnificent, a thousand tiny alarms.

Someone grabs for me, thick fingers around my arm, but I bite, hard. The taste is metallic, old pennies, but the hand lets go. I crawl, foot leaving a red smear, into the narrow service corridor. At the end, a door is open, light spilling from within.

A shape waits in the glow, squat and immobile. For one heartbeat, I am sure it is death. But then it turns, and I see the ancient face, the heavy arms, the faded housedress printed with daisies.

Galina.

"Little dove," she whispers, the words for me alone. She shoves a bundle of towels into my hands, then pulls me upright. Her strength is astonishing. She smells of yeast and vodka and mothballs.

"We go," she says and shoves me through a door I never knew existed.

The passage is coffin-narrow, walls raw concrete and earth. No lights. I feel the old woman's hand guiding me, the pressure of her palm refusing argument. We move by memory and terror. My foot throbs, the cut sticky and wet, but the pain is distant now. Only forward exists.

Above, the gunfire has become sporadic, a few desperate shots and the collapse of distant furniture. I hear shouts, someone's name, or maybe just a curse. I wonder if Ekaterina is still alive. I wonder if I care.

The passage bends, slopes down, then back up. The drift grows colder, the darkness absolute. I want to scream, but I know it will kill us. I bite the inside of my cheek until blood floods my tongue.

At last, the passage ends in a wooden hatch.

Galina heaves it open, sunlight burning my eyes.

We are behind the stables, outside the security fence, in the tangled wild that separates the estate from the next dacha.

Snow covers the ground in a crusty film.

I collapse onto it, gasping, sucking in the cold like oxygen.

Galina stands over me, surveying the horizon. She seems untouched by the last ten minutes, as if this is a rehearsal she has run a hundred times.

I bandage my foot with the towels, clumsy and slow. Galina helps, her fingers expert in their gentleness. She mutters words I don't know—prayers, maybe, or old Soviet codes. When she finishes, she pats my head. "Good girl," she says.

The adrenaline fades, and my hands shake so badly I can't tie the last knot.

Galina hauls me up again, and we hobble toward the tree line. Behind us, the estate smolders, windows blown out, roofline jagged against the white sky. The sirens are closer now, but I know they are not for us.

At the edge of the woods, we stop. Galina pulls out a flask, pours vodka over my foot. I howl. She gives me the rest to drink.