Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 43

The blood is almost beautiful.

I can’t stop staring at it. It’s running in perfect channels down the grooves of the tile grouting. A geometric latticework of flowing crimson against gleaming midnight black. Too flawless to be real.

But it is real. It’s real and it belongs to Myles, the one who’s been there for Sam and for me more times than I can count. On the other side of this door, he’s dying—fast or slow, I can’t be sure, but every second that passes does him no favors.

“Oh, quit with the fucking tears,” snaps Katerina. She pokes me in the ribs with the gun. “We’re going to get him right now.” She points toward the door with one toe. “You’re going to open it. Slowly. So fucking slowly. And don’t even think about screaming.”

My fingers tremble as I reach for the handle. The metal is frigid, or maybe that’s just my body going into shock.

The knob turns. One groaning gear at a time. When I pull, the door creaks open with glacial slowness. Beyond it, the dim hallway beckons.

Empty. Still.

But not quiet. Organ music drifts from the sanctuary, along with the drone of prayers in Russian. Sam is out there somewhere, probably wondering where I am. The thought of him sends a fresh wave of terror through me—not for myself, but for what this will do to him.

My gaze drops to Myles’s crumpled form and my heart seizes. If he finds us like this… If Kat does what I think she might do…

But then I see it—the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive.

For now.

The gash on his temple looks nasty but superficial. Head wounds always bleed like crazy. What concerns me more is his complete stillness. In all the months I’ve known him, Myles has never been still—always alert, always watching, always ready to move at a millisecond’s notice. It’s not right to see him so frozen stiff.

“Quit stalling,” Katerina growls, shoving me forward. My bare feet slip in Myles’s blood as I stumble toward him.

A single tear slides down my cheek. Not from fear, but from fury. This bitch really thinks she knows Sam better than I do. Thinks she can predict what he’ll choose.

She has no idea what love looks like on Samuil Litvinov. No idea at all.

I’m so close to Myles I can smell the stench of his blood mingling with his aftershave. The combination makes my stomach roll.

I swallow hard, willing myself not to vomit. Not now. Not when one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death for two—no, for three of us.

My baby’s life is hanging in the balance, too.

“Pull him inside.” Katerina gestures with the gun toward Myles. “Careful. Remember who and what you’re carrying.”

My palm slides instinctively over my rounded belly. Our baby kicks, as if sensing my distress. At four months, it’s already strong—like her father. The thought of Sam gives me strength, even as fear claws at my throat.

Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I grip Myles under his arms. His head lolls against my shoulder as I begin to drag him across the floor. My back screams in protest, but I refuse to let him go. If I can just get him somewhere safe, maybe buy us some time…

“Faster!” Katerina barks, but I hear the tremor in her voice now. She’s starting to crack. And cracked things are dangerous—they can either shatter completely or slice you open.

I pray Sam finds us before we discover which way she’ll break.

Inch by inch, we retreat back into the bathroom. When we’re inside, Katerina shuts the door and throws the lock. She turns to face me. It’s then that I can look her in the face for the first time.

She’s wild-eyed. Her hair is mussed, unmade, split ends fraying in every direction. It’s so alien on her that I have to blink to be sure I’m truly seeing it.

But I am.

It’s desperation in Dolce & Gabbana.

“Stop fucking staring at me!” she seethes, surging forward suddenly to crack me across the face with a wicked backhand.

The unexpected blow snaps my head to one side and my neck screams in protest. One of her many rings cuts open my cheek, too, and I feel the wet heat of blood trickle from the wound.

But my mouth stays sealed shut. If she wants me to beg for mercy, she’ll have to do a hell of a lot worse.

She spits on the floor next to Myles’s unmoving body. “We have a few minutes,” she announces with a flourish of the Cartier watch on her wrist. “And he’s looking awfully pale, don’t you think? Fix him up. He’s still worth more to me alive than dead. Barely, but still.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I drop to my knees, seize up the hem of my dress in both hands, and rip until a strip of it comes free. I loop that around Myles’s head, then go back to work making more.

The ripping sound fills the silence between Katerina’s ragged breaths and Myles’s shallow ones. I press the wadded silk against Myles’s temple, watching crimson soak into the black fabric. His pulse flutters against my fingertips whenever I stop to check his neck, faint but real.

“Such tender care for the help.” Katerina’s voice drips sardonic acid. “He was always loyal to Samuil. Even when Samuil didn’t deserve it.”

I arrange Myles’s arms by his sides, buying us a few more precious seconds. Every moment he stays unconscious is another moment he’s not in danger from her twitchy trigger finger.

“Myles is loyal because Sam earned it,” I say, keeping my voice soft and steady. “Through friendship. Through trust.”

Her laugh bounces off the bathroom tiles. “Trust? In our world?”

But something passes there—a flash of raw hurt in her eyes, gone as quick as it appeared. A word that struck too close to home, I think.

I press another strip of silk over the first, letting my hands shake. I want her to see it. Let her think I’m terrified. Let her think I’m weak. She’s not the first person to underestimate me—and if I survive this, she won’t be the last.

The bathroom door rattles suddenly, making us both jump. “Is someone in there?” a woman’s voice calls. When we don’t answer, she tries the door again. “Hello? Nastya, are you in⁠—”

But she never gets to find out if it’s Nastya or not.

Because before she finishes her question, the rest of her words dissolve in a scream.

Then comes the sound that made her scream—a sharp crack that echoes off marble and stone. Another follows. And another.

Gunfire.

My brain stutters and buffers. This isn’t happening. Can’t be happening. But the next burst of gunfire is closer, unmistakable.

And the screams…

Those are real, too.

I’ve heard animal sounds like this before—when a predator breaches what should have been a safe space. The recognition scorches through me, instinctive and electric: we’re all prey now.

Katerina’s head snaps toward the chaos. Her body goes rigid. I’m waiting for her to laugh, for her to taunt me, to paint pictures of what must be happening to Samuil marooned out amongst the chaos…

But then I see how pale her cheeks are. How white her knuckles.

She’s just as surprised as I am.

And, more surprising: just as terrified.

Male shouts boom throughout the church, a cacophony of Russian and English, accompanied by bursts of gunfire and the crunch of bullets meeting plaster, wood, and flesh. Among the multilingual chaos, a single voice rises above the rest.

At first, it’s just another thread in the tapestry of mayhem. But it plucks at my attention the longer it goes on, until I realize why it sounds so familiar.

It’s Ilya’s.

I know that voice, though I’ve never heard it like this—loud, commanding, almost exultant. The words are gibberish to me, but the tone isn’t.

It’s the voice of someone claiming what they believe is rightfully theirs. Someone who’s finally letting their mask slip to reveal the monster beneath.

“Nyet!” The word tears from Katerina’s throat. Her grip on the gun wavers for a fraction of a second. “That lying piece of shit! He swore we’d wait until⁠—”

She catches herself, but it’s too late. I see the truth written in the tremble of her perfectly lined lips, in the way her chest heaves beneath her neckline.

Ilya has betrayed her. Whatever plan they had—whatever carefully orchestrated move they were going to make together—he’s thrown it all away. And now, Katerina is trapped in here with us, a heavily pregnant hostage she never wanted and an unconscious man bleeding out on the floor.

“He promised,” she whispers hoarsely. “We were going to do it together. After the funeral. Just to Sam. Not like… Not like this.”

Another burst of gunfire. Closer now. Katerina’s head whips toward the sound.

“He’s going to kill us all,” she says, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I hear real fear in her voice. “That psychotic bastard is going to⁠—”

A massive explosion rocks the building. The mirrors rattle in their frames. Dust sifts down from the ceiling.

And beneath my palm, Myles stirs.

My first thought is that I can’t let her see. If she sees him waking, she’ll slaughter him just to eliminate a variable.

“Ilya doesn’t love you, Kat,” I announce. “He isn’t capable of it.”

She laughs hysterically. “What the fuck would you know about it?”

“I know love,” I reply patiently. “Sam⁠—”

“Sam!” she screeches with more unhinged laughter. “You stupid little bitch! You think he loves you? You think you’re special?”

I draw in a deep breath to calm my nerves. We’re teetering on the edge of death here, and this insane woman’s gun is dancing wildly between us. “I think you’re in trouble, Katerina. Let me help you before⁠—”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

She whips away from my outstretched hand and the butt of her gun strikes the nearest mirror. I wince as glass rains down, landing in shards amongst Myles’s blood.

Outside, more gunfire and chaos and who the fuck knows what else. It’s madness inside and out, here and there, every fucking place I look.

And at my feet, Myles is slowly dying.

I inch back toward Kat. She raises the gun, but it doesn’t frighten me. She won’t use it. Not yet.

“The baby’s kicking,” I murmur. “Would you like to feel? It might be your last chance to touch something pure.”

She opens her mouth to spit something heinous at me, I’m sure. But before she can, the bathroom door explodes inward in a shower of splinters and marble dust.

Through the chaos, a familiar voice rings out—deep, commanding, and absolutely furious.

“Hello, little mouse.”