"Damir." I keep my voice level, nonthreatening. "I was hoping we'd run into each other."
"I bet you were." His voice carries the rough edge of someone who's been running, hiding, looking over his shoulder. "Nice wedding, by the way. Real touching."
"Your sister looked beautiful."
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, dangerous. "Don't talk about her. Don't pretend this is anything other than what it is."
"And what is it?"
"You using her to get to me." He steps closer, the gun never wavering. "You think marrying her makes me vulnerable or weak? You think I won't do what needs to be done?"
The threat is clear, but I don't react. Instead, I study his face, looking for the tells that will give away his next move. Damir has always been emotional, quick to anger, prone to mistakes when pushed. Today, he looks like a man with nothing left to lose.
"Back off," he continues. "Leave Zoya out of it. Stop whatever game you're playing."
"No game." I take a step closer, testing his resolve. "Just business."
"Business?" His laugh is bitter. "You married my sister for business?"
"I married your sister because I wanted to." The words come out before I can stop them, but they feel true. "The business comes later."
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Then his expression hardens again. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
He lunges forward, leading with the gun. I grab his wrist and twist, feeling the satisfying crack of bone as his grip loosens. The pistol clatters across the concrete floor, but Damir doesn't stop. He drives his knee toward my ribs, and I barely manage to deflect the blow.
The fight is fast and brutal. Damir has desperation on his side, but I have training and experience. We trade blows in the narrow space between cars, our breathing harsh in the enclosed garage. He catches me with a solid punch to the jaw that snaps my head back, then follows up with an elbow aimed at my throat.
I duck under the strike and come up with my knife, the blade sliding free from its sheath in one smooth motion. The steel catches the overhead lights as I slash across his ribs, opening aline of red through his shirt. He stumbles backward, one hand pressed to the wound.
"Next time, I won't miss," I tell him, but he's already moving toward the emergency exit.
The heavy door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone in the garage with the taste of blood in my mouth and the echo of his footsteps fading. I retrieve his pistol, check the clip, and slide it into my jacket.
My phone buzzes with updates from the men in the field. No sign of him. Lost him in the metro tunnels. Gone to ground again. I read each message with growing frustration, then delete them all.
Damir is bleeding, angry, and desperate. The wedding announcement worked exactly as planned—it drew him out, forced him to act. But it also escalated the situation beyond clean containment and I fucked up my shot. He's not just running now. He's hunting.
I check my reflection in the side mirror of my car. My lip is split, and there's blood on my shirt collar. The cut on my cheek will need attention, but it's not deep. I look like I've been in a fight, which will require explanations I don't want to give.
The elevator ride back to the rooftop feels longer than it should. When the doors open, the reception is still in full swing. Zoya stands near the bar, talking to Rolan's wife about something that makes them both laugh. She looks up when I enter, and her expression changes instantly.
"Maksim?" She crosses to me quickly, her eyes taking in the blood, the torn shirt, the way I'm favoring my left side. "What happened?"
"Car trouble," I say, but she's already reaching for my face, her fingers gentle on the cut.
"This isn't from a car." Her voice is quiet, meant only for me. "Who did this?"
I look into her eyes and see genuine concern there, real worry. Not the calculation I expected, but something that looks like fear. Fear for me.
"It's handled," I tell her, and she nods, but her hand stays on my cheek.
"We should get you cleaned up."
"Later." I glance around the reception, taking in the guests who are watching us with barely concealed interest. "After everyone leaves."
She nods again, but I can see the questions in her eyes. The wedding was supposed to be the easy part, the public declaration that would draw her brother out. Instead, it's become the opening move in a much more dangerous game.
