Page 40 of Unholy Matrimony

“Let’s go! NOW!” We ran out of the apartment and made it to the stairwell. We take the steps two at a time before we get to the ground floor. We climb back over the fence, sprinting to the car. Oleg peels out of the parking lot and takes the back streets to get us back onto the highway back to Moscow. Ilya is in the backseat with me. “Let me see your arm.” I take out the first aid kit.

He lifts the vest off, tossing it to the floor. “I can never breathe in that thing.”

We are well on our way back to Moscow. Ilya’s asleep next to me. He sleeps peacefully most of the way back. I lean back in my seat, when Oleg says, “Nice job, Brat12.”

“You too. You almost had me thinking we were going to have to help you.”

Oleg scoffs, “Never.”

We both laughed, knowing it was a close one. His face hardens. “Can I trust that if anything ever happens to me, you will make sure Mila and Alexei will be okay?”

I stare at him in the rearview mirror. “That goes without question. You are my family. They are my family. I will always care them for.”

“Will you do the same for Lina?” I ask, already knowing his answer.

“Ona semeynaya.”13

By the time we pull up to the house, it's 3:30 a.m. I'm hoping Lina is fast asleep so I can sneak in and shower. She doesn’t need to see me covered in blood. Ilya climbs into the front seat and they take off. I trudge up the front steps. I stick my key in the door and walk into my home.

1. What's the matter?

2. It's okay, my beautiful flower

3. No, my love. No.

4. baby

5. My lioness

6. Bitch

7. I love you Lina. You are my whole world. See you soon, baby.

8. Who the hell are you?

9. Death, who are you?

10. Yes

11. Fuck!

12. Brother

13. She's family

Chapter eighteen

Kalina

Ihave been waiting for Lenya for hours now. I look over at the clock and it shows 3:30 in the morning.

Where the fuck is he?

I hear the front door open and jump up from the sofa in the great room. I turn the corner as Lenya is locking the deadbolt. He turns around and my mouth almost hits the floor. His face has blood splattered across it.

His gray shirt is now a canvas for the blood that has covered it. I run over to him. “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

He shakes his head no. “It's not my blood, malyshka.1” He pushes past me and heads for his office. I follow him, even though I probably should just leave this alone.

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