Arranged By The Bravta King

25

Mikhail.

The ringing in my ears is deafening, drowning out the screams and cries for help that echo around the gallery. My vision blurs as I wipe blood from a cut above my eye. My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened.

"Mikhail Ivanov!" Anton shouts my name, but I can't see him through the smoke. "Mikhail Ivanov!"

"Find my sister!" I yell back. My hand flies to my side, and panic seizes my throat when I do not feel my gun. It takes me a second to remember that I had left it behind because tonight was supposed to be a respectable affair.

Around me, people lie sprawled on the floor, some motionless, while others claw at the debris that pins them down, their faces twisted in agony. Blood splatters are on the once pristine walls, and the canvases are hanging in tatters.

It's all gone. In seconds, it has been destroyed.

"Help! Please, somebody, help!" Izzie's voice pierces above the din, her desperate sobs rising above the commotion. I glance over to her, cradling Gaspar in her arms. He's motionless, staring at a wall that's no longer there.

One look and I know there's nothing I or anyone else can do for him.

"Somebody help!" she pleads, her eyes meeting mine with desperate reproach. She won't leave him, not even to save herself. Her face is turning pale, and there's a pulsing gash along her arm.

Without hesitation, I strip off my jacket and place it on her cut shoulders. I use my tie to wrap a tourniquet around her bleeding arm. But blood continues to flow and a puddle—bright red from arterial blood—is already forming beneath her body. I motionPavel toward us. He looks down at Gaspar's corpse and then at Izzie and gives me a quick shake of his head.

She's not going to make it.

Snarling, I help Izzie up and hand her over to Pavel. "I'm sorry, Izzie."

Izzie trembles as she fumbles at my arm, her fingers already uncoordinated and cold from blood loss. "Don't leave me," she gasps, clawing desperately at life even as it pours out of her. "Please don't leave me."

I turn my back on her. I don't have time for this. I navigate through the c*****e and chaos, searching. Black smoke starts to thicken, and I call out again.

"Lara!"

The blaring sirens are a haunting soundtrack as I search for Larissa.

The thought of her lying somewhere among the dead sends a wave of dread through me.

No. No. No! Please, no. Not you too!

I force myself to focus, to push past the familiar pain and shock that threaten to overwhelm me. Panic is our enemy now. If I don't stay calm, more lives will be lost. I'm sure of it.

"Keep moving!" I shout, urging the remaining guests to head for the exits. "Get to the exit!"

"Kolya!" Larissa's voice calls out, barely audible over the sirens. I follow the sound of her voice, stumbling through the debris and pushing aside fallen tables and chairs. My heart pounds furiously in my chest as I follow her voice.

I spot her crouched beside an injured woman, tears streaming down her face as Larissa struggles to rip off a piece of her own dress to create a makeshift bandage for a woman's head. Her once pristine gown is stained with blood and soot. But she's alive, and that's all that matters.

"Thank God you're okay," I exhale, relief flooding through me as I pull her into my arms. "We need to get out of here, now."

"What happened?" she stammers, her gaze darting around the destroyed gallery as if trying to make sense of it all. "One second, I'm talking to her and then, and then ..." She hiccups as she looks down at the woman, unable to finish her words.

"I don't know," I say, my voice tight with anger. "But whoever did this will pay. I'll make sure of it. But right now, we need to get out of here."

"No, help her." She shakes her head. "I have to find Rurik. I can't leave without Rurik!"

I motion another one of my men over to carry the injured woman to safety, then turn to my sister. "Lara, we have to go. This place isn't safe."

Larissa's determination remains unbroken. She fights me, pushing my hands away. "Not without my husband." She turns and shrieks, "Rurik!"

"Lara." I grip her shoulders. "You are not doing this here!" I roar. "This is not for discussion! You will listen to me." And when she continues to scream for her husband, I reach for our father's voice in desperation. "Eto moi prikaz!"

Those familiar words—this is my order—shock her into equally familiar obedience. Tears continue streaming down her face, but she struggles up to her feet, her panicked fear forgotten. A rush of smoke surrounds us, and I realize that the gallery is on fire. An acrid smell of charred flesh floods my nose, and it's getting hard to breathe.

Gasping for air, I pull Larissa across the room toward a dimly lit exit. With my last bit of energy, I yank her out the open door. Two people rush across the street to help us.

Only when we are safely across the street do her senses slowly return.

"Rurik," she stammers. "My Rurik."

I look over, relief pumping through my body when I see him running toward us. His face is covered with scratches, but he is otherwise uninjured. Rurik throws his jacket over Larissa's shoulders and yanks her into his arms. She cries harder, each sob hammering against my heart, and Rurik rocks her gently.

I look back at the pandemonium unfolding before my eyes.

The elegant gallery has been reduced to rubble. Ambulances and fire trucks are screaming to the scene as the NYPD begins setting up a cordon to keep the onlookers away. What happened presses down on me like a specter that will never leave my side.

There's no turning back now. This will make the news. And amidst the darkness and destruction, a dark thought bubbles to the front of my head. This is only the beginning.

Not doing anything makes me angry. I pull out my phone and wait for Alexander to answer. "Yes, Mikhail Ivanov?" His smug voice answers on the other end.

"Where the f**k are you?" I shout.

"I went out to get a cigar. I met a delightful couple from Quintock ..."

I cut him off. "Lanzzare ... they bombed the gallery opening. Gaspar Villegas is dead." I struggle to keep my voice low while my eyes dart for any signs of danger on the street. "I need you here,now."

"Chyort voz'mi," the voice curses. "I'll be there in five minutes, my pakhan."

"I'll put a bullet in your head if you're not here in three," I bark angrily into the phone. "Inform the other pakhans. Sorokin, Popov, Chuikov, all of them!"

It's one thing to kill each other, but the Lanzzare have touched civilians. This won't go quiet.

Alexander pauses. "At this hour?"

"Did I f*****g stutter? Call them!"

There's a longer pause, and I wonder if I lost the call, and then Alexander asks, his voice now deadly serious, "Do you have the girl?"

"What does she have to do with it?"

"The thing is," Alexander takes a deep breath on the other end. "Her father was always a very accomplished bomb maker."

Blood drains from my face at the words. And before I can respond, the call disconnects.