43. Radimir

43

RADIMIR

I’d done exactly what I swore I’d never do: I’d let my guard down. Spinning around and around the dance floor, with Bronwyn’s breasts soft against my chest and her white gown billowing out behind her, I was happy. I knew I was grinning and that people from the other mafia families could see it, and I didn’t care at all.

Then Spartak and his gunmen burst in, and it took me a few seconds to come out of that warm, pink fog. The first spray of bullets would have killed us both if a man from one of the East side families hadn’t run in front of us in his bid to escape. He was cut down, and as he fell screaming, I finally woke up, picked up Bronwyn and ran. I dived behind the waist-high wall of amplifiers the band was using and pressed Bronwyn to the floor, covering her body with mine. Bullets tore into the amps, sending out showers of sparks and deafening screeches of feedback. The band fled the stage, sending their mic stands tumbling. The guests were all trying to get out but there were too many people and not enough doors.

More bullets slammed into the amps. They hummed and crackled, belching white smoke that stung my nostrils. I don’t have a gun! When I’d been getting dressed that morning, I’d been too focused on trying to figure out what to say to Bronwyn. Plus, who takes a gun to a wedding?

Answer: my brothers. I peeked out and saw Valentin and then Gennadiy returning fire. Where are my security guys? I’d had three men stationed outside but there’d been no warning: they must have been slaughtered before they even got a shot off.

The amps started to spit blue arcs of electricity and I flinched as one of them singed my jacket. “We’ve got to move,” I told Bronwyn. When the gunfire stopped for a second, I pulled her to her feet and ran for one of the doors.

Time seemed to slow down. For the first time, I could really see the devastation. People lay bleeding, perhaps dead. Tables around the edge of the room had been overturned as people fled and the exits were still clogged by the crowds. Spartak had disappeared as soon as my brothers fired back but his gunmen were still there, reloading their weapons to fire again.

Suddenly, Bronwyn tore herself out of my grasp and veered off to the side. I grabbed for her but missed. Where the hell is she going?

Then I saw him. In the middle of the room, stumbling through the glittering snow of glass shards. Shit! A kid, no more than six, forced by his parents into a little three-piece wedding suit. He was red-faced and bawling, blind with tears.

Bronwyn was running straight towards him, sprinting. I raced after her, skidding a little in my dress shoes. The floor was polished wood, slick with spilled champagne, and she was in heels: it must have been hell on her joints, just staying upright. Chyort , my little librarian was brave. But the gunmen were going to fire again long before she could get the kid to safety. She scooped him up and looked desperately around for cover but there wasn’t any: we were right out in the open. I picked her up and spun around, clutching her and the kid to my chest and putting my back to the gunmen. Then I closed my eyes tight and waited for the bullets to tear into me.

There were three heavy thumps behind us and then screaming. A machine gun fired but it hit the ceiling, not us. I tentatively uncoiled from around Bronwyn and the kid and looked behind me.

The three gunmen were on the floor, rolling and sobbing. Two had a dog’s jaws locked into their arms and had dropped their guns. The third had been foolish enough to keep hold of his gun. He had a dog on his chest, its jaws on his throat, and he wasn’t moving anymore.

That’s the thing about Mikhail’s dogs. They’re adorable bundles of floof...right up until the moment they see one of the family in danger.

Mikhail, unflappable as ever, collected up the guns and then recalled the dogs. They trotted over obediently, wagging their tails, one of them with its jaws dripping red.

“Baba!” said Bronwyn suddenly. “Where’s Baba?”

“She’s fine,” said Gennadiy, reloading his gun as he walked over. “I got her out of the room as soon as the shooting started.”

Bronwyn put the kid down, ran over and wrapped Gennadiy up in a hug. Gennadiy grimaced and pouted, unused to affection.

We reunited the kid with his parents and checked the guests. One man was dead. Three more people had been hit by bullets but would survive, several more had cuts from flying glass and two had been hurt in the crush at the doors. The three security guys I’d had stationed outside were all dead and that hit me hard: they were all good men who’d always been loyal to me. But I knew it could have been much, much worse.

The police arrived and started asking a million questions, but between Mikhail’s smooth diplomacy and a phone call to the police commissioner, who we had an understanding with, we managed to smooth things out. No, officer, we have no idea who these men were, or why they shot the place up.

But in reality, I knew exactly what had happened. Spartak had somehow found out I killed his brother. How?

The guests started to leave. Bronwyn was just hugging her friends goodbye when Gennadiy took me aside, saying there was something he needed to show me. He rounded up Valentin and Mikhail, too, and we slipped away from the police and out into the house’s gardens. It was very still and very quiet, and so cold that the snow that covered the tops of the hedges had frozen into a thick, sparkling crust.

“Spartak just sent me this,” Gennadiy told me, pulling out his phone.

At that second, Bronwyn ran out of the house and over to our group, still in her wedding gown. “What is it?” she asked, seeing our faces. “What’s happened?”

Gennadiy looked shifty.

“She’s family, now!” I snapped.

He sighed and showed us a video on his phone. It was shot from a low perspective, maybe waist height. I recognized Borislav’s apartment immediately. The camera showed the living room but in the background, I could see the open door to the bathroom. And I could see me, slamming Borislav’s head against the tiled step of the shower, and Bronwyn standing in the hallway watching.

Bronwyn slapped a hand over her mouth. “If he shows this to the cops, you’re going to jail.”

I gazed down at her, overcome. Anyone else would have been worrying about themselves: the video showed that she’d lied to the police and might even make her an accessory, but she was only worried about me. I don’t deserve this woman.

“Spartak won’t show it to the police,” said Valentin sadly. “He wants revenge. He sent us this, so we know why.”

“I’m sorry,” I told my brothers tightly.

“You couldn’t have known there was a hidden camera,” said Gennadiy. “From the angle, it’s probably in a bookshelf or something.”

“I wouldn’t have spotted it either,” said Valentin quietly.

I nodded gratefully. I was glad now that I’d insisted on being the one to do the killing. At least I would be Spartak’s prime target and not my baby brother. But if I was in danger, that meant Bronwyn was in danger, just being close to me... I pulled her against my chest and wrapped my arms around her protectively.

“Why would Borislav have a hidden camera in his apartment?” asked Bronwyn.

I thought about it, then grimaced, nauseous. “The bastard had a reputation for...doing things to women. My guess is, he had cameras set up to film it.”

Bronwyn twisted in disgust. “ Eww, Jesus!”

I sighed. “We’re lucky the police didn’t find the camera when they searched the place. Spartak must have found it just today...” I rubbed my face. “Shit. He was probably clearing his dead brother’s apartment.” I felt a stab of guilt. I didn’t like Spartak, but the poor guy didn’t deserve to come across a video of his brother being murdered. No wonder he’d tried to kill me. And he’d keep trying: he wouldn’t stop now until I was dead. That’s why he wasn’t showing the video to the police, he wanted me free so he could get to me.

Gennadiy put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll talk to The Eight. They told us to do this. They have to back us up, now that Spartak knows.”

I nodded. I just hoped he was right. We’d broken the truce by killing Spartak’s brother. The Eight were the only thing standing between us and all-out war. “What can I do?” I asked.

Gennadiy’s eyes flicked to Bronwyn and his face softened. “It’s your wedding day,” he told me. “Go be with your wife.”

I looked around at all of them. Valentin was nodding and Mikhail, too. It sunk in that they’d all heard my speech. They knew how I felt about her. And they weren’t looking at me with pity, or like they thought I was weak. They looked...happy for me. I put a hand on Valentin’s shoulder, and one on Mikhail’s, so that we were all joined, and nodded back gratefully.

Then I took Bronwyn’s hand and led her to my car. By now, almost all of the guests had left and there were more police walking around than civilians. Not the way I’d imagined our wedding ending. But we were alive, unharmed and—I squeezed Bronwyn’s hand—the night was just beginning.

Yes, Spartak wanted me dead. Yes, the violence could turn into a full-blown war between our families. But there’d be time for that tomorrow. Tonight, I needed to fuck my brand-new wife.