Chapter 2

Chapter Two

In which we hear Mariya’s version of That Night.

Fireball – Pitbull

Mariya…

Current day…

“He did what?” Tatiana screeched.

We’re eating dinner in front of the fireplace in our suite at the Academy, too tired to head out to the dining hall. To her credit, my best friend at least let me finish the main course before dragging the whole, sordid story out of me.

“He said it was a mistake,” I confirm, my grip tightening on my fork. “He handed me a Plan B box and told me it wouldn’t be happening again.”

“That asshole!” She nearly vibrates with rage, which is rather comforting. “Let’s burn his clothes and throw his cell phone on top of it all. Or cut out the middleman and set him on fire. Seriously, what a selfish prick!”

“Is it wrong that your homicidal rage is cheering me up?” I ask. She pulls me away from the table and we sit on our wonderfully squishy couch. We piled it high with colorful pillows and it’s the most comfortable spot in the entire suite.

She breaks into a reluctant laugh. “I’m glad I’m entertaining you. What happened, exactly? Start from the beginning. Before the battle.”

“We were eating dinner just before it happened,” I said. “This train… I know I’ve told you how over-the-top luxurious it was, the dining car, however, was over the top even by exalted Morozov standards. The table was this hand-carved masterpiece of black walnut that ran fifteen feet down the middle of the car, with snowy-white linens and elaborate settings of delicate, thin china, crystal goblets, and antique silverware. Maksim even ‘borrowed’ a Michelin-starred chef – Jean-Georges – from the Artest restaurant in Moscow to feed us during the trip.”

“Okay, I’ve got the visual,” Tatiana says, “what happened then?”

On the train…

Night had already settled over the barren landscape, and we were eating a spectacular meal created by Jean-Georges, who delivered each course with an army of waiters. He’d been determined to focus on a new international cuisine each day. Tonight, it was dishes from Morocco.

“I have crafted the B’stilla this evening with young squab and a spice blend of ras al hangout and saffron,” Jean-Georges said, preening a bit. He deserved a bit of self-congratulation, just the savory scent of the saffron was making my mouth water. “Enjoy.” He nodded majestically as he sailed from the dining car.

“Um, isn’t this essentially pigeon pie?” asked Tania, my sister-in-law, who was sitting next to me.

“It’s a very popular dish in Morocco, darling,” Yuri murmured, leaning over to kiss her, tapping his glass of rioja to hers.

Carefully breaking the perfect crust of phyllo dough with my fork, I enjoyed the low murmur of voices around me.

The Morozov family had expanded rapidly over the years. My sister Ekaterina’s arranged marriage to Giovanni Toscano brought his brothers into the fold; Dario and his wife Cora. Their formerly estranged brother Lucca, who is engaged to my best friend Tatiana, wasn’t ready to rejoin the family, and I couldn’t blame him. The estrangement was his brothers’ fault, not his. They knew they’d made a terrible mistake and apologized, but I thought he had the right to make them suffer a little. He and Tati were having fun in London with our friends before we all headed back to the Ares Academy for another brutal year. Which left me with the bane of my existence, Konstantin Turgenev.

Who is also my fiancé.

I had actually been a little thrilled when Maksim approached me when I was fourteen with the proposition of an alliance between the Morozovs and the Turgenevs through the marriage they arranged for us. My brother even asked me, instead of telling me, which was unheard of for the Pakhan of one of the most powerful Bratvas in the world. I’d said yes to the alliance because after all, Konstantin was so cute.

I was such an idiot.

Konstantin is infuriatingly smug. Condescending. Arrogant. He’s a bastard covered bastard with bastard filling and I have to marry him. I wish I could go back in time and kick my fourteen-year-old self right in the ass for that agreement.

Not that it would have changed anything.

The Morozov Bratva desperately needed allies at the time and I was raised knowing I’d be married into some advantageous match.

I don’t know where Kon got his special brand of asshole-ishness, because his mother Lucya has a beautiful heart and she’s kind to everyone. His father, Alexi? Kon definitely has his looks; Alexi is insanely gorgeous, with blond curls and vivid blue eyes, he looks like all the paintings of the Archangel Michael. He’s also spooky. Alexi, the Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva is aptly known as the Angel of Death, and in circles as brutal as ours, this elevates him to an industrial-strength level of terrifying. However, here at the table, Alexi was smiling at his wife and kissing her hand. Too bad he didn’t pass on any of his game with the ladies to his son. Or maybe it’s just me.

“To tomorrow’s stop at Lake Baikal!” cheered Konstantin, standing and raising his glass for a toast. “The deepest lake in the world and when you dump a body in there, it’s never coming back up.” He was grinning and even his grin irritated me. “Any nominations on who we should throw overboard?”

Tania turned a little green and gulped her wine. Alexi scared the hell out of her during a conversation about Lake Baikal once. I don’t know what he told her, but she refuses to leave the train when we get there tomorrow.

“That is not appropriate dinner conversation,” Lucya scolded Konstantin, “I did not raise you to be so uncouth.” I smirked into my couscous.

He caught my gleeful expression and leaned in. “Want to go for a swim with me, baby?”

“Only if I can leave you in there, moy predpolagayemyy, my intended,” I said sweetly.

“Yep, that’s true love right there,” mumbled Tania.

Rurik, my brother’s Obshchak, rushed into the dining car. He hurriedly murmured into Maksim’s ear and he rose immediately.

“This is a code red,” my brother said sharply, “everyone-”

The rest of his safety protocol was smothered by the roar of a train car behind us exploding into shrapnel.

The battle was a blur for me. I took a sniper rifle and found a position by a window, targeting men outside. I could hear the explosions, the shouts, and gunfire, but no one breached the safety of the dining car. Mechanically, I sighted the enemy and shot, over and over until the soldiers outside thinned and then disappeared. Lucya shrieked as a huge blast from behind us rocked the dining car violently.

“Alexi and Kon are back there!”

Slapping another clip into my rifle, I ran for the door leading to the next car back, cursing under my breath as it stuck. I could look just enough through a crack in the door to see a body blocking it. Shoving my rifle through the opening, I rolled the dead man over. “Heavy bastard,” I wheezed. Lucya slammed her shoulder against the door, helping me open it enough to let us slide through.

“Lock the door!” I shouted back to Ekaterina and my sisters-in-law.

Ekaterina knew better than to argue with me. “Be careful, sestra,” she said, ignoring the protests of the others and slamming the door shut behind us.

Lucya and I raced through the first two cars, but in the open space between the door to the next one, I was knocked flat. Whatever hit me was so heavy that my dazed brain thought part of the roof collapsed. It was some giant bastard, his face already bloody. I couldn’t get my rifle out from under me so I reared back, bashing his nose as hard as I could and slamming my elbow into his ribs.

“Kurva meghalsz!” he roared, sounding like he was gargling on blood. I rolled him off me just enough to bring my rifle up and shoot the man right behind him who was lifting his knife to drive it into my neck. The one on top of me pulled the strap of my rifle back, choking me.

My vision swam, there were two of him and I kept striking out with my elbow or the heel of my hand and nothing hit him, was there maybe three of him…? My chest was heaving, trying to pull in air that wasn’t there. There was a shadow behind him and then a horrible, wet wash of something warm splattered over my face. The man’s weight was yanked off me and I rose to my hands and knees, trying to force my lungs to work again.

“Mariya, breathe, baby, slow breaths, you got it…” I was sitting on someone’s lap. They were cupping my cheek, talking in my ear. “Dyshi seychas, breathe now.”

It was Konstantin. He’s worried, his icy blue eyes are warmer. Why is he worried? “Lucya-” I cough and cough, wincing a little as I wipe a trace of blood off my lips.

“She’s fine. My dad is with her. She shot someone who was trying to run off, the fucking coward,” he chuckled, and it didn’t bother me as much. “Why did you leave the dining car? You were safe there!”

“Because we were trying to find you and your father!” Lucya said sharply, crouching down to look at me. “Can you breathe, moy dorogoy, my dear?”

“M’ okay,” I rasped.

Her gaze darted to the two dead men next to me. “Did you kill them?”

“She shot one of them with her rifle half under her and this fucking moose on her back,” Kon said, “he was choking her out with her rifle strap.” He picked me up, making my head swim, looking at me critically. “You look like something I just cut out of a shark.”

“Go to hell,” I tried to snarl, but it came out as more of a croak.

“I can’t,” he said cheerfully, heading back through the train, “the devil has a restraining order against me.”

Even his father laughed at that. No wonder Kon thinks he’s so funny.

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