Page 12 of Twisted Prince

What bothers me most is his interest in the Richelieu girl—Dani. Efrem’s far too entangled with her. He thinks I don’t know that they’ve been dating under the radar. But I do. It’s my job to know all the goings-on around my pakhan, and I’m damn good at my job because it’s all I’ve ever trained for.

Don’t get me wrong. Dani seems like a nice enough girl. A bit on the naive side, maybe, but the way she’s treated Mel and the girls would definitely speak in favor of her being a good person. And Pyotr and Silvia trust her.

No, what bothers me is that Dani’s father—New York’s attorney general and an influential political figure—has been developing increasingly close ties to Mikhail. Which means Efrem’s position in Pyotr’s inner circle could be the hole in our boat that just might sink this giant ship.

“Are we ready?” Pyotr asks, cutting through my spiraling thoughts and bringing me back to the task at hand.

I give a curt nod, glancing around to ensure the men are locked and loaded. “Let’s move out.”

During our time inside, it has transitioned into a clear, crisp morning, with fresh snow glittering on the ground. The men’s breaths escape in plumes, fogging around me, but the heat of our adrenaline easily burns away the bitter chill.

To a man, they’re more than ready to put an end to this bloody conflict. To kill the clan that’s been slowly crushing the Veles brotherhood like a python. And no one would love that more than me. I have seven innocent women’s lives on my conscience—women who worked for Pyotr, were under his protection, my protection—women who died brutal deaths at the hands of the Zhivoder clan, and I fully intend to avenge them.

It takes no time to load into the Land Rovers. Then we’re driving the miles of open terrain between the Veles estate and Mikhail’s, avoiding the roads so no one will see us coming. It’s a considerable distance, but in a world of sprawling estates, I doubt we cross more than a handful of boundary lines. No one is going to see us out here in the middle of nowhere.

We park at the edge of Mikhail’s estate, choosing to go by foot so as not to call attention to our presence. I flank Pyotr on the other side of Efrem, taking up Val’s usual position. The brooding bodyguard still hasn’t completely recovered from a bullet to his leg that he took protecting our pakhan and his family less than a month ago.

He can still do his duties around the Brooklyn brownstone property, but today requires too much walking, too much stealth, so we had to leave him behind. Breaking that news to him hadn’t been pretty. He’s proud, and I think learning that he’s not indestructible has taken its toll lately. But in the end, he understood.

So now it’s my duty to protect Pyotr alongside Efrem—or perhaps against him. I have one eye forward and one eye on the impressively stealthy bodyguard as we creep through the woods.

I keep a keen ear out for any unexpected sounds as we stalk through the trees on silent feet.

The woods are quiet, our feet muffled by the soft blanket of snow. I keep my gun at the ready, my eyes scanning the trees for any movement as we make our slow and steady approach. My men, fifty or so good, loyal soldiers, fan out behind me and to my left.

Maks and his squad are on the right, with Osip and his men taking up the rear.

Soft early-morning sunlight casts a pink glow through the wooded space, beckoning the day. But something feels off to me. Most people find unexpected noise and movement unnerving.

I know better.

It’s in the silent stillness that the best predators hunt their prey.

And aside from the whispers of our own footfalls on the ground, I don’t hear a single sound.

My gaze flicks toward Pyotr, then Efrem, but neither seems disturbed by the heavy quiet. So I press on. I’m wound too tight and finding imaginary monsters around every corner. I need to wait, to keep my senses sharp, until I figure out what’s had my intuition tingling for far too long now.

Ahead, through the trees, a massive building comes into view—a gray-stone structure with towering, impenetrable walls and turrets that cap each corner like watch towers. It vaguely calls to mind some medieval castle built to withstand attacks just like this one.

Raising my hand, I make a fist to bring my men to a halt. And behind me, I can hear Osip’s men do the same. We pause at the edge of the treeline. Waiting for any sign of movement, any guards monitoring the perimeter of the home. The hair raises on the back of my neck as no one makes a sound.

Something’s not right.

I frown, and my eyes flash in Efrem’s direction as my instincts kick into high gear—as do my suspicions. But Pytor’s bodyguard looks just as on edge as I feel. Like he finally senses it, too.

A burst of gunfire erupts from somewhere off toward our left, and I crouch automatically, sinking behind the cover of a bare-limbed bush. Panicked shouts follow a moment later, confirming what my gut has been telling me for the last ten minutes. We’re under attack.

Armed men bearing sniper rifles come flooding from the house.

“It’s a trap,” I snarl in Pyotr’s direction.

Efrem forces him into cover, making me momentarily grateful for his presence.

The rat-a-tat of AR rifles issue from our right, warning me that they’re coming at us from both directions. And in an instant, we’re in a firefight. Pyotr barks the command to fight back.

“Shoot whoever you can find!” I bellow in Russian, ordering the men to engage.

Then I raise my gun, putting bullets in two Zhivoder men who start to step from cover. I shoot blindly for the points where gunfire originates from, too. This isn’t my forte—volleying bullets back and forth between front lines.

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