Page 63 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Mikhail pushes me behind him, shielding me with his body. “Get below deck,” he orders, his voice sharp with urgency. “Now.”

I hesitate, not wanting to leave him. “But?—”

“Go,” he shouts, already reaching for a weapon hidden beneath his jacket.

Adrenaline surges through me, making me turn and run. My white wedding dress billows around me, catching on chairs and table corners as I move. I pause, gathering the fabric in my hands to free my legs.

“This way.” Nastya appears at my side, grabbing my arm. “We need to get the civilians to safety.”

Together, we begin ushering panicked guests below-deck. The sound of gunfire intensifies, punctuated by shouts and splintering wood as bullets tear into the yacht.

“Hurry,” I call out, guiding an elderly couple toward the stairs. “Get inside, quickly.”

As the last of the civilian guests disappear below, I turn back to the deck. The scene before me is one of utter chaos. Mikhail’s men are engaged in a fierce gunfight with Valdés’ crew, who are now boarding the yacht.

I search frantically for Mikhail and spot him near the bow, exchanging fire with two of Valdés’ men. His face is set in grim lines, and his movements are precise and deadly.

“Phoebe.” Nastya grabs my arm. “We need to get you to safety too.”

I shake my head. “I can’t leave Mikhail. I can’t just hide while he’s fighting.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re pregnant. Your safety is paramount.”

While we argue, a man in a dark suit rounds the corner. His looks straight at me, and a wicked grin spreads across his face. He raises his gun.

Without thinking, I shove Nastya aside and dive behind a nearby bar. The bullet whistles past, shattering bottles and glasses above my head. Shards of glass rain down, stinging my exposed skin.

I crawl along the floor, snagging my wedding dress on broken glass and splintered wood. My hand brushes against something solid—a heavy cast-iron skillet that must have fallen from the outdoor kitchen setup.

Footsteps approach. I stand up and press my back to the makeshift galley wall, gripping the skillet so tightly my knuckles turn white. The man’s shadow falls over me as he rounds the bar.

Time seems to slow. I see his finger tightening on the trigger. In that moment, all my fear and anger crystallize into a single,powerful surge of energy. I swing the skillet with all my might. The heavy iron connects with the man’s head with a sickening thud. His eyes roll back, and he crumples to the ground, unconscious.

I stand there, panting, the skillet still clutched in my trembling hands. What I’ve just done hits me, and I stumble backward. He’s probably not dead. Probably.

“Phoebe?” Mikhail’s voice cuts through the chaos. He appears at my side, his eyes wild with concern and relief. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, unable to form words. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm protectively around me. “We need to move,” he says urgently. “It’s not safe here.”

He clasps my hand tightly while we weave through the chaos on the deck. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills the air, mixing with the salty sea breeze. My heart is galloping like a racehorse, and my wedding dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to my skin, damp with sweat and sea spray, not to mentioned tattered and torn in places.

We duck behind an overturned table, the white tablecloth now stained with spilled champagne and flecked with blood. He looks around, assessing the situation. A muscle twitches in his cheek.

“Stay low,” he says, his voice hard to hear over the gunfire. “We need to get you to safety.”

I nod, unable to form words. My throat is constricted by fear. We start to move again, but a figure suddenly appears before us, blocking our path.

José Valdés stands there, his dark eyes glittering with malice. His wet suit is wrinkled, and a streak of blood mars his leftcheek. He levels a gun at us, curling his lips into a sneer. “Going somewhere, lovebirds?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mikhail pushes me behind him, shielding me with his body. “Valdés, this ends now.”

Valdés laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh, I think it’s just beginning,amigo.”

In a blur of motion, Mikhail lunges forward, knocking the gun from Valdés’ hand. It skitters across the deck, disappearing under a nearby lifeboat.

“Phoebe, stay down,” he shouts, never taking his gaze off Valdés.

I remain behind the sturdy wooden table as my pulse skyrockets. From my hiding spot, I see the two men circle each other, their movements fluid and predatory.

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