Page 42 of Bratva Bride
“Well, look at you now,” he sneers. “Didn’t think I’d get a second chance at my prize.”
Something inside me snaps. I shove Ludmila behind me, my voice like ice. “Try it. See how far you get this time.”
He laughs, not backing down, like the memory of that auction still means something to him. “I always did like a challenge.”
“You made a mistake coming here,” I spit.
His companion lifts a pistol, but Kirov flicks two fingers. “The girl’s mine. Take the big guy.”
I roll my shoulders, grounding myself. “How about you let us pass, and I don’t open your throat?”
His eyes flash with amusement. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He lunges. Rifat meets him halfway, knife flashing—steel against flesh. Kirov dodges left, slamming an elbow into Rifat’s ribs. The other man closes in, gun raised. I move before he can fire, knocking his wrist up with the heel of my palm. The shot cracks, ricocheting into the wall. I drive my knee up, catching him in the gut, then wrench the pistol from his hand.
Rifat and Kirov grapple, both grunting, fists flying. Kirov slams Rifat against the elevator, trying to dislodge the knife. Rifat holds on, blood blooming on Kirov’s sleeve.
The second man recovers and swings at me. I duck, stepping inside his guard, using the momentum to jam the pistol into his jaw. He drops, spitting blood. I don’t hesitate—kick his weapon down the hall and spin to see Kirov wrench free from Rifat, knife still in his hand, wild and grinning.
Kirov rushes me, swinging the blade in a low arc. I dodge back, feint left, then catch his wrist as he overcommits. He’s stronger, but I’m faster. I twist, snap his wrist until he roars, knife clattering to the floor. He swings a punch, but I duck under, driving my fist into his ribs again and again.
Rifat staggers upright, blood on his face, grabs Kirov from behind in a chokehold. The other thug claws at my ankle, trying to bring me down, but I stomp hard on his hand. He yowls, but lets go.
Kirov rises, nose bleeding, eyes vicious. He claws a knife from his boot—a thin, wicked blade—and rushes again. I sidestep,parry his slash with my forearm braced, but the knife grazes skin, warm sting along my biceps. Adrenaline flares hotter.
We circle. I feint left, then vault over the fallen console. Kirov lunges after me, boots crunching glass. I grab a broken carafe neck, jagged and heavy, and fling it. It smashes against his temple; blood streaks through his short hair. He wavers. I leap, plant a foot to his chest, and drive him back against the elevator frame.
He gasps for air. I seize his wrist, twist hard, bone cracks, the knife drops. With my free hand I hammer three quick punches into his solar plexus. Breath whooshes out of him. I yank him forward by his lapel, torquing his broken wrist until tears spring to his eyes.
Kirov’s bulk crashes into me, driving me backward before I regain footing. I block his knife hand, but he plows straight through, palms spread like a battering ram. His forearm whips across my collarbone, then he grabs a fistful of my jacket collar and swings me sideways into the wall, hard. My skull rings, stars prickling behind my eyes. Plaster cracks; a framed abstract falls and shatters by my boots.
The impact steals my breath, but training kicks in before panic can. I duck as he cocks back for a second strike and ram my knee into his gut. He grunts, staggering. I spin out, shoulder aching, vision tunneling for half a heartbeat. Fuck.
And then I kick him straight in the chest. Kirov falls to the ground, but I know we don’t have much time. The service elevator still gapes open behind Kirov’s fallen body, its interior lighting spilling across broken glass and spilled liquor.
“You,” the other guy snarls, barreling towards me. Rifat’s hand shoves into his jacket, and before I can react, he pulls a gun out and points it at the guy.
The shot echoes like thunder in the narrow hall. The man jerks, drops, and crumples against the mirrored wall as the shell clinks to the floor.
Rifat’s eyes flick to me. “We need to move?—”
I push Ludmila at him. “Take her and go. I’ll hold him back.” I jerk my chin toward Kirov, who’s already dragging himself upright amid broken glass.
“Nadya, but?—”
“Go.” I shove the pistol into his hand, shove Ludmila after him. The elevator doors start to close; Rifat swears, pulls her inside, and the panel slides shut with a dull chime.
Kirov lurches to his feet, blood dripping from his brow, fury twisting his face. I kick him in the ribs, hard enough to stall him, then spin for the emergency staircase.
I burst through the stair door and pound down flight after flight, boots slapping concrete. Two floors down, I glance back.
He’s there. Massive shoulders filling the doorway, face twisted with rage. “You’ll bleed for that, little princess,” he roars, barreling down after me.
I race faster, vaulting a landing rail to shave a corner, then leap the final three steps to the ground-floor landing. The exit is ten feet away, yellow PUSH bar glowing under emergency lights.
A hand like iron clamps my braid and yanks me backward. My back slams against concrete, and the world flashes white. Kirov’sweight drives me to the floor. His forearm wedges under my chin, crushing my windpipe.
My vision tunnels.
