Page 93 of Sexting the Bikers
The Russians shift around their boss, their weapons visible even from here, but none of them move too fast. They know something’s off. Maybe they caught a glimpse of the bikes tucked away or heard the click of a safety from the shadows. Doesn’t matter. They’re in the open now, and as long as I have line of sight, nobody gets a clear shot at Reaper or Katya.
I let the rifle rest, finger loose along the trigger guard. My pulse is even, my breathing slow. Down below, the barbecue smoke drifts over the yard, hiding the scent of gun oil and nerves. Novikov’s voice booms out again, demanding his bride, threatening fire and destruction. I smile, watching Reaper shake his head, watching Dog give the signal to the guys waiting on the perimeter.
Reaper presses his earbud, head tilted, every muscle in his body tensed for whatever’s coming through the wire. He doesn’t speak, just listens, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the yard. When he finally lowers his hand, he holds up the OK sign, two fingers circled, aimed right at me. It’s supposed to mean things are under control, but something in the way he moves tells me he’s not as sure as he wants the others to believe.
Down below, the Bratva start making their approach, fanning out across the yard, their boots crunching the gravel with every step. They move quietly, but not quietly enough for me to lose track. I count each figure as they slip into the open, guns in hand, eyes hunting for movement in the shadows. Their faces are cold, set, the kind of men who’ve done things they never speak of in daylight. Novikov is front and center, shoulders broad and stiff, mouth set in a line. He wears a long dark coat, the collar up against his neck. I’m surprised he camehere tonight, instead of just sending men to do his dirty job. But I guess Zaika must have forced his hand.
Then I spot a handful of men moving with them, a few steps behind the main group, not quite blending in. Something about their faces sticks out—high cheekbones, sharp jaws, the same pale eyes I’ve seen in Katya. They’re not being handled like prisoners, but there’s distance between them and Novikov’s men, as if neither side wants to claim them outright. For a second, I think they’re just more of Novikov’s muscle, until I catch a tattoo on one man’s arm—a faded two-headed eagle, the same old symbol we saw on the crew that attacked us at the clubhouse weeks ago.
Recognition hits. These are the Riazanovs. Katya’s family.
I slide my scope along the line and my pulse jumps. Among them, unmistakable, is Alexy Riazanov. I remember him from earlier this week when he tried to attack us. I haven’t forgotten him.
My confusion spikes. The Riazanovs, working with Novikov? That wasn’t in any plan we made, and it throws me. Last I knew, the Riazanovs played by their own rules. Now they walk behind Novikov, close enough to be used, far enough to show the arrangement isn’t friendly. Are they hostages? Are they here by choice, or is Novikov using them as insurance?
I watch Katya from my post on the roof. She sees them too. Her face changes, sadness washing over her features, but not surprise. She knows what’s up, was probably even expecting them.
The yard is quiet now, every eye on Novikov as he shouts his demands. I keep the rifle trained, sighting from Novikov’s chest to Alexy, then over the line of men who share Katya’s features.
Katya stands beside Reaper, unmoving, her gaze locked on her cousin. She doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t call out, juststands taller, her hand unconsciously gripping the edge of Reaper’s jacket.
The Ravagers are hidden, waiting for a signal, every man in place. The barbecue’s smoke hangs heavy in the air, clinging to my clothes, but the hunger is gone now. All I feel is tension, cold and certain, humming through my bones.
Alexy is the first to step into the yard, shoulders squared, mouth drawn into a hard line. He doesn’t hesitate, just pushes through the gravel with a handful of Riazanov men at his back. The Bratva pour in behind, forming a loose line, weapons in plain sight. Alexy glares at Reaper as if he’s weighing up whether to talk or just start shooting.
I catch Reaper in my scope, watching from above as he makes a show of his own calm. He leans against a battered picnic table, beer in hand, casual as if it’s just another club night instead of the front edge of a war. He raises the bottle, tips it at Alexy and the others, and then takes a sip, the kind of move that would get him killed if there weren’t a dozen guns aimed from the dark.
“I see you arrived for the barbecue,” Reaper says, his voice carrying across the yard. “The only question is, are we grilling steaks or Russian pigs tonight?”
There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the air. Then Katya, standing at Reaper’s side, lifts her chin. “I vote for pig,” she says.
Novikov steps forward, eyes on Katya. He spreads his hands in mock concern, his tone full of poison. “You’re really going to war against your own family, Katya? Some family you are.”
Katya doesn’t flinch. She looks straight at Alexy, her face set. “Some familyyouare. Siding with the same men who tried to kill me.” Her voice is low but everyone can hear. “You know what he is, Alexy. You know why we’re here.”
Alexy’s jaw works, something flickering in his eyes. He glances away for a second before locking back on her. “If you cared about this family, you’d be standing with us,” he says.
She shakes her head, her disappointment clear. “Twenty-four hours ago, you wanted Novikov dead, and now you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with him. You expect me to trust you after that? After everything?”
Alexy’s grip tightens on his weapon. He looks at Novikov, then back at Katya. “You know why we’re doing this, Katya.”
He says it like that’s supposed to mean something—like she should already understand the impossible position they’re all in. It’s enough confirmation for me. Whatever deal Novikov brokered, whatever threats are in play, he’s got someone important in his grip. The family is here as leverage, not out of loyalty.
A heavy quiet follows, the kind that fills the yard from one end to the other. Katya’s family watches, shoulders tense, uncertain whether to move or wait. Novikov stands smug behind Alexy, his gaze shifting between the two of them, ready to pounce on any weakness.
But Katya gives him nothing. She stands her ground, refusing to show fear, refusing to let them see how much this hurts. Reaper’s beside her, silent but solid, his presence a promise that no one is laying a hand on her tonight.
All the plans and threats seem small in comparison to the look Katya gives her cousin. It’s the look of someone who’s had to save herself more times than she can count, someone who knows what it means to stand alone. I keep my sight fixed on Novikov, ready for anything. Katya may not have asked for this, but she isn’t backing down.
Alexy’s men rush forward, pushing past their own hesitation, some with weapons drawn, others empty-handed but just as angry. Gravel scatters under their feet as they charge.
Before they can reach Katya or Reaper, the Ravagers come out from every hiding place around the yard. They move quickly, swinging metal pipes, wooden bats, and heavy sticks. Theirtiming is perfect. Alexy’s crew is caught by surprise, hesitating just a moment too long.
The two sides crash together in the middle of the yard. Pipes hit arms and shoulders. Men yell and curse, some falling back, others pushing forward. The sound of fists and sticks landing fills the air, along with shouts and the scuffle of boots on gravel.
Dog is the first to drop an attacker, knocking the wind out of a man with a swing to the gut.
One of the Ravagers knocks a gun out of a Bratva’s hand, sending it spinning across the yard. A couple of Bratva get shoved hard into the fence, rattling the chain links.
