In which love (or sheer stubbornness) brings Alexi back from the dead.
Alexi…
A week ago…
Fuck. It’s so cold.
That’s the first thing I feel, then the agony slams through me. Someone’s gouging out my insides and I can feel the wet slide of my blood streaming from my chest.
“Hold him,” someone grunts, “I’ve got to get this bullet out.”
Hands come down hard on my shoulders, keeping me still. “Brother, you’re alive. I’ve got you. I got you.” The voice breaks slightly, and fighting through the pain, I realize it’s Nikolai.
“Ni…”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Lucya’s safe. Stop fucking thrashing around so the doctor can fix you up.”
When I finally force my eyes open, Nikolai is lying on a stretcher next to me, squeezing a ball while blood flows from a tube in his arm to mine.
“Lucya…” I groan, trying to sit up.
“Sit your ass back down!” he says sharply. “I’m power-drinking shitty lime-flavored Gatorade so I can keep donating blood. If you tear your stitches, I’m pulling the plug.”
“What.” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “What happened? Dmitri shot…”
“Da, the treacherous fuck shot you point blank, twice in the chest, and an extra bullet in the head.”
“You survived the headshot because the bullet hit the thickest part of your skull.” A woman strolls into the room, drying her hands but still wearing bloody scrubs. She’s young, probably just a few years out of her residency. “The bullet ricocheted down the left side of your face instead of tunneling into your brain. It left quite a scar, I’m afraid.” She pulls off her surgical cap, looking exhausted. “Your brother dragged you into my clinic just as I was trying to lock up and go home.”
“It was either her or the 24-hour vet clinic down the street,” Nikolai says.
“I’m flattered,” she says dryly. “I’m Dr. Coleman. I’m not completely sure how you’re still alive, but your brother made it clear that no one can know this tidbit of information.”
“I’ll triple your pay,” Nikolai assures her.
She’s offended. “I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. Don’t fucking insult me. Though I should overcharge you for being a pain in the ass.”
I like this doctor.
“Niko, I know who The Butcher is,” I rasp.
“That’s my cue to catch a nap on my office couch,” Dr. Coleman says. “Come get me if he starts bleeding again.”
Nikolai barely hears her, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the stretcher. “You know? Who? Because I’m going to stab that motherfucker in the face.”
Alexi…
Now…
A roar ripples through the crowd, building like a wave as it crashes against the line of men surrounding my family and Lucya on the dais. She half stands, swaying until Damien helps her back into her seat and Nikolai holds a gun to Dmitri’s head. She’s so pale, her makeup standing out against her pallor like a mask and she’s too thin, all her beautiful curves are gone. My sweet girl’s suffering is heartbreakingly clear. The hideous wedding gown is hanging on her, the weight almost taking her off her chair. She’s pulling against Damien’s grip, reaching out to me.
“One moment, my Kolibri. Trust me,” I smile at her, hoping she can feel my love. She lets out a sob before nodding.
“Honored guests, forgive the intrusion. I am forced to make my case to you in this rather dramatic fashion because secrecy and a lack of time prevented otherwise.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lucya clutching the side of her dress, her hand moving, and I force myself to focus.
“Dmitri murdered our father Anatoly, the Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva.” The ballroom rings with shouts of dissent and outrage that die down quickly when a new image appears on the screen. “This video shows Dmitri meeting with Rurik Dubrovin, Szymon Wozniak from the Polish Mafia – and an unnamed third party who was providing funds and mercenaries to disrupt the Turgenev Bratva and assist in the murder of my father.”
The video plays and the audio of the conversation is crystal clear, Dmitri, Rurik, Szymon, and Gregor Siderov are drinking and talking in a private room at his restaurant, discussing how to administer the poison that simulated a heart attack for my father and detailed plans to hijack our arms shipments and kill my family’s soldiers.
“This is all a lie! This is false!” Dmitri screams, “It’s a deepfake, an AI fabrication!”
Nikolai clips him hard on the side of the head with his gun. “Shut the fuck up, brother,” he says calmly. “I have no problem slicing out your tongue.”
The ballroom is nearly silent, men from the Six Families irritably shushing anyone at their tables who attempt to speak. I see Maksim and Yuri Morozov leaning forward, watching intently.
By the end of the video, as the men on screen raise a toast to each other, the shouting begins.
“Traitor!”
“Scum!”
“Kill them all!”
Holding up my hand for silence, I nod in respect to the Pakhans who rise from their seats, furious and intent.
“I have a full confession from Gregor Siderov. He used his restaurant as a way to gather intelligence on our families. He operated on the dark web under the name of The Butcher.”
Comprehension and then fury dawn on many faces, and I know my family isn’t the only one who was nearly destroyed by Siderov.
Yevgeniy Morozov speaks up. “Where is Siderov now? The Morozov Bratva issues a claim for his life.”
A fury surges through me like poison. “I apologize, Yevgeniy Morozov. Gregor and his son Boris are in pieces at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Gregor Siderov intended to give my bride, Lucya, to Boris and his men as a gift.”
There are sounds of shock and disgust around the room. Most of the people here know what a woman being presented as a “gift” means. Lucya puts her hand over her mouth. Her mother wraps her arm around her shoulders, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“She’s not your bride!” Dmitri screams, “She’s mine! I’ve already fucked her and I am keeping her!”
Nikolai rolls his eyes. “Lying piece of shit. You haven’t touched her.”
Everything in me wants to go to Lucya, to pick her up in my arms and take her away from here. But there is one last thing that has to be done.
“Honored Pakhans, I claim the position as head of the Turgenev Bratva as my own. I state my right to end Dmitri’s life as a traitor. What say you?”
Yevgeniy Morozov is first. “We support your claim. Death.”
Leo Rostova is next. “Your claim to your Bratva is supported. Death.”
Radimir Agapov was a friend of my father’s for over forty years. “The Agapov Bratva backs your claim. Death.”
Georgiy Vasiliev just took over as head of his family’s Bratva after his father’s death, he’s younger, like me. “There can be no question. We support your claim. Put a bullet in that treacherous bastard’s head.”
“The Dubrovins are the fifth family,” I say, “I believe you will all agree that in this case, the traitor Rurik is not allowed a vote.”
“Agreed,” they all murmur.
Rurik wails like a woman, babbling his innocence, drawing everyone’s attention to him as I pull out my Glock, eager to finish Dmitri.
Nikolai and I planned this ambush out down to the last detail, and everything has gone perfectly.
Until this moment.
Dmitri yanks a revolver from an ankle holster and shoots Nikolai. The shot goes wide, hitting his shoulder instead of his chest.
Before Dmitri can fire again, Lucya springs to her feet, burying a blade in his neck. It’s not quite deep enough to kill him, though the spray of blood across the snowy white tablecloth is very satisfying. I nod to Damien and he pulls her away. I shoot Dmitri in the head, a precise bullet hole appearing in the center of his forehead.
Rurik, seated in a position of disgrace at the very end of the dais, decides to put an end to his shame and failure before I can. He’s laughing, a high, hysterical sound, sweat rolling down his red face as he puts a gun to his head and fires. Because the old fool can do nothing right, the bullet tears across his forehead at a downward angle and hits Inessa, throwing her backward.
Lucya is swaying and I sprint towards her, leaping over the table to catch her before she can fall.
“You’re alive?” She’s sobbing so hard that she can barely get the words out.
“I am, my beautiful hummingbird,” I kiss her pale face, her lips. “I’m sorry for letting you suffer. I couldn’t get word to you in time.” Wrapping her arms around my neck, she weeps into my jacket and I sit down, lifting her onto my lap and rocking her. “I’m here, love. I’m here.”
Stiffening, she leans back and hits me as hard as she can, right in the chest. “I thought you were dead! And in case you didn’t notice, I was forced to marry your brother!”
Admittedly, I had not considered how horrifying that thought would be. For both of us. “You’re a widow now, Kolibri.”
She slaps at my chest again before ripping off her wedding ring and throwing it at me. “That’s the most comforting thing you can come up with?” Her eyes drop to my chest. “You’re bleeding! What did I do? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I-”
Looking down, I see my black jacket is soaking. She must have opened the stitches on my chest. “It’s all right, I’m fine.” This is not completely true, because the flow of blood is much more than it should be. With a curse, our family’s doctor, Vladimir Turgenev, races up to the dais, ripping open my shirt.
“Sofiya,” he calls over his shoulder to his wife, “send someone out to the car and get my medical bag. You-” he points at Lucya, “napkins, as many as you can find.”
“You heard the doctor!” Lucya is on fire, shouting at the waiters, “Get me all the napkins you can carry!” She kneels next to me, desperately packing the wound with the snowy white linen cloth that the Four Seasons will likely be burning after tonight.
“Didn’t you assholes check everyone for guns?” I growl at Damien.
“Really?” he says incredulously, “You’re bleeding out. Let’s address that first, shall we?”
“The doctor told him to take it easy after she patched him up,” Nikolai says, “but I think all the torturing might have made things worse with him.”
“Pakhan, what do you want me to do with Rurik Dubrovin?” Nikolai is attempting to be respectful to my new position while watching the doctor’s flying hands with concern.
“Keep him alive. I want to do the honors,” I grit between my teeth. My men are politely ushering the wedding guests out of the room, aside from another doctor sent from the Rostova Bratva, who’s kneeling beside ours and checking the second wound on my abdomen.
“How was he standing?” the Rostova doctor asks Vladimir, who grunts irritably.
“Stubbornness and recklessness go hand in hand with this family,” he snaps, taking the medical bag from his wife.
With the doctor’s direction, Lucya gently helps lift me, putting my head on her lap. “I am so sorry, husband. I never should have hit you.”
“The little slap you gave him did nothing,” Vladimir says, his hands a blur as he works to close the wound. “The Pakhan should be in the hospital. It’s a miracle he made it this far.”
My wife’s finger gently trails along my left cheek, tracing the scar that ends on my jaw. “Was this from the bullet he…” She grits her teeth, forcing her tears back, “When that piece of shit shot you?”
“Da,” I close my eyes for a moment and her thumbs smooth over my cheeks.
“Alexi? Please don’t close your eyes. Please!” Her voice is high and terrified.
“Just for a moment…” I manage. “Just resting.”
My wife’s voice fades away as I slip back into darkness.
