Page 84 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

Her nails feel like pins in my flesh. The rest of the scene unfolds in my mind as I follow along with each message: a tourist family from Nebraska has gotten caught in the crossfire of a shooting.

The hit missed.

And the cop returned fire.

Dead children.

A sustained firefight.

More horrific details flood through the radio. I glance at Liya, noticing her stony expression has shifted to abject terror. Her fingers are in her mouth. She’s gnawing them nervously while clutching my hand.

The realization of what she’s ordered is hitting her.

And it’s hitting herhard.

A wave of emotions washes over me that twists my stomach. Nausea rises from the depths of my body, pinching my cheeks and thickening my tongue in my mouth.

Guilt. It’s guilt.

Over what I’ve done. Over what I’ve forced my wife to do.

Over what she has to experience with me.

Successful pakhans don’t dwell on such emotions. They’re useless to us, the kind of things written into storybooks for silly characters to feel. My brigadiers might feel regret over not following an order.

But me?

That’s not something I make a habit of feeling.

My father molded me into the type of man to take action without hesitation. Thoughtful and intentional action, of course. Butconfidentaction.Sureaction.

Guilt never results from such actions.

But in spite of this upbringing, feelings assault me and suck me into a pit with my wife. She’s chewing on the rest of each horrific new detail, absorbing them one by one. Is she memorizing them for later? Or is she simply frozen by the horror of it all?

Cops have always been trigger-happy. This isn’t the first time an innocent bystander has been shot because of a firefight.

But a hit like this shouldn’t have been so careless.

Agitation swirls with the guilt. Whoever led that team will be dealt with properly. And if it was a contractor, I’ll be sure his death is slow and painful.

There’s no excuse for sloppy work. None at all.

Slowly, silently, Liya rises from the couch and releases my hand. She clings to her cardigan while she floats toward the hallway, her footsteps barely making a sound.

I shut off the police scanner. That’s enough for now.

When I stand, I stare after my wife, noticing her languid movements and zombie-like posture—like the undead cursed to wander the earth after a life of sin.

It’s nothing for me to make such a call.

But for her? It’s everything.

It’s what attracted me to her in the first place. People like Liya just don’t exist anymore. Despite the bloodshed and horror she’s witnessed, she’s managed to retain the brightest light I’ve ever seen. She’s an otherworldly star hanging out in the darkness of space.

Until now.

Now, all these shadows are taking a toll on her.

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