Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  Markov's voice is getting more and more breathless. I don't know what happened to him during the shootout with the F.B.I., but he's got a dark circle on the side of his t-shirt. I don't mention it, and neither does he, but it's been blooming like a deadly rose all morning.

  I'm hoping he'll just bleed until he passes out, and then I can get the hell out of here. Steal the car, steal his phone, call Gray.

  Because even though Markov's weak, he's got me. He finally cut loose my wrists, but I didn't have much of a reprieve. He then handcuffed my left wrist to the old iron bedrail. I shake it absently; the posts don't give.

  I'm stuck. And I'll be the first thing Gray sees when he busts through the door—and even though I don't know why he wouldn't call me back, what the hell his problem was—I have to believe he still cares for me.

  Even if he didn't tell me he loves me.

  And that will be his weakness. He always told me, if other members of the family thought he cared for me, I would be his weakness—a way to his heart.

  I hope it's still true, because that's what my entire plan is based on.

  I convinced Markov that instead of hiding out, fleeing the state—and probably killing me sooner rather than later—he should use me as bait.

  "You hate him, don't you? You hate him as much as I do." I'd lied over and over and over again. "So get him up here. You're not a coward, but Gray is: he went to the Feds. Get your revenge. Get me my revenge."

  When I'd called Gray, I'd tried to make my voice sound cold. Heartless. Had he noticed? Had Markov? Was any of this worth it?

  Was I the coward? If I truly loved Gray, would I sacrifice myself—do anything to keep him safe? Had I called him only to bring him to his death?

  But our child. Our child.

  Markov picks up his cell, and I shift on the bed, watching him. He paces the room, playing with the shotgun he'd brought out from who knows where. I watch the stain on his shirt grow larger, darker, but he's like a rabid raccoon. The fact that death is creeping toward him only energizes him and makes him stronger.

  Markov stops to text, and I know he's sending Gray toward us, though in a roundabout way. He's paid a few people along the route to watch and make sure Gray's alone.

  "He's almost here, little Kat." Markov walks triumphantly toward me. He's got a pistol on a holster on his side, and the rifle. "Now we get to find out if you were telling me the truth, or if you're just another lying pizda."

  "What are you talking about?" I don't bother to ask what the last word means; from the way he's leering at me, I get the idea.

  Markov sits next to me, the bed creaking under his weight. He puts an arm around me like a lover might, and I cringe at the sharp scent of body odor—and fear—that surrounds me.

  Please don't throw up.

  I've only done it once, and blamed it on nerves. My worst fear is that Markov finds out I'm pregnant, because I know—I know—he'd do anything to hurt Gray. And killing his unborn child would rank pretty high up there on the list. Earn him a regular gold medal in the Psychotic Mafia Member Olympics.

  "You tell me you hate your husband, that he forced you to marry, that he forced you to spread your legs, that you haven't seen your father since Petrokov 'escorted' him out of town."

  I nod, breathing through my mouth. "I did. It's all true."

  Markov laughs, pulling me close. He puts his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I force myself not to pull away, not to cringe. I stare at the door. Any minute, any minute, Gray will rescue me…

  "I'm going to give you a choice, Katya: do you die first, or second?"

  My head whips around and I stare into his rabid eyes. "What!"

  He laughs again. "Surely you didn't think I would let you live?"

  I feel tears welling, and he watches them gleefully, reaching out a finger and catches one from my cheek, sucking it into his mouth. "I only regret I wasn't well enough to fully taste you, sweetling. But I think killing Gray will make me harder than anything you could do for me. No offense."

  "What do you mean, do I want to die first or second?"

  "Ah yes." Markov sets the rifle to his left, on the side of the bed, out of my reach. But then he pulls out a pistol, though "pistol" probably isn't the right word. I don’t know anything about guns, but this one looks particularly deadly. Boxy, large, utilitarian, black. Not the pretty kind you see in old Westerns. This is made to kill with maximum efficiency, and it's in the hands of a killer.

  He twirls in on his finger, laughing at my panicked expression.

  "Gray is going to come in that door, and he's going to see you. Now, I am going to shoot him as soon as I see him. A gut shot with a rifle is not a good way to die, but it's exactly what he deserves. It takes a long time—longer than you'd think—for a man to die from a wound right here."

  Markov places his hand directly over my womb. I grit my teeth. I don't move.

  He laughs and withdraws, going back to playing with his gun.

  "You choose: after I shoot Petrokov and start his suffering, do I kill him before you? Of course, if I do that, I'd have to torture you a bit. Maybe fuck you—or that pretty little mouth of yours. I mean, we need to give Petrokov a show. Something to watch while he rolls around on the floor, bleeding. I like that option, because Gray gets to see me own you."

  He trails a rough hand down my cheek and I reflexively shake my head. No, no to all of it!

  I close my eyes. "And the other option? I die…first?"

  Markov grins, and pulls me close like I'm a dear friend, a sweet sister. He turns and speaks quietly, intimately: "Ah yes, I do think that might the easier way for you. You'd get a nice, clean death. One bullet, through the temple. No pain. At least, not much, I don't think—who can say?"

  He smiles at me like we're discussing a dinner menu.

  He's talking about death like it's a fine vintage of wine.

  "And if I die first, when do you kill Gray?"

  "Ah! That's the beauty of my plan: I don't kill Petrokov. You do."

  39

  Gray

  If all the lights in the shack weren't blazing, I would have driven by the place entirely. It was a small outbuilding, hidden by a family of thick, tall pine trees. At the end of a gravel road, in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York.

  Perfect place for a murder.

  Let's just hope it's Markov's, and not mine.

  Or Kat's.

  Chase and my men weren't far behind. I'd tracked a few out-of-state cars at certain stops, men who'd been sent to track me. They obviously weren't trained nearly as well as my men, because I'd let them see me—but they hadn't seen Chase or any of my boys who came after.

  "Boss, don't go in yet. We'll be there in twenty."

  I don't answer, just hold the cell to my ear. There's no way Markov didn't hear me approach—a mile-long gravel driveway? Perfect low-tech alarm.

  "No cars. No men I can see. Nothing but lights blazing."

  "Sounds like a real fucking welcome party." Chase's voice is tinny on the other end of the line. We've been having problems with reception, up here in the middle of nowhere.

  I'm about to tell him I can't fucking sit in my car, like a coward, when my wife's inside, held captive…hopefully still alive.

  Then I hear a woman's blood-curdling scream.

  "I'm going in," I say. "Something's wrong."

  "What! No, Gray—"

  I slide the phone in my back pocket, open the driver's door, drop to the ground.

  No shots fired.

  Nothing at all now, except crickets. And the aftershock of that scream. It was Kat.

  Adrenaline racing, heart pumping, I circle to the left, under the cover of the trees. No way am I fucking going in that front door. But on the side of the house, the windows are nailed shut, and when I reach the back of the shack—no back door. All the windows here are covered with thick blackout curtains.

  I listen. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck me!

  I've c
ircled almost the entire building, coming back to the front, when I hear her voice.

  "Gray!" Kat shouts. "Come in the front door and he won't shoot."

  I don't dignify that bullshit with a response. Instead, I freeze where I am, wearing all black, blending into the shadows. If I can keep them talking for another fifteen minutes, I'll have reinforcements…

  Then Markov shouts my name. "Come in now and I swear I won't shoot you. But if you don't come play with us, I will shoot your lovely wife."

  I push open the door, every instinct I have screaming danger, don't do it!

  As soon as I do, I try to take it all in—one large room, doorway to the right, sofa, fireplace, bed—and, Markov's standing to the right of the bed, holding a gun to Kat's head.

  And Kat, trembling, kneeling on dirty yellow sheets, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders, tears in her eyes—pointing a rifle straight at my heart.

  "Drop the gun," Marko says.

  "Never." I've got it aimed at his forehead. I take a few steps into the room.

  "Stop!" Kat says, her voice—and her arms—shaking. What the hell was he thinking, giving her a gun she could barely hold, barely control?

  "Take another step," Markov says more evenly. "And she dies." He presses his revolver against her temple, and Kat whimpers.

  "What do you want, Markov?"

  He laughs, and that's when I notice he's injured. Bleeding on his left side, so it probably won't affect his dominant hand. The one holding a gun to my wife's head.

  Might affect his judgment, though.

  "You know what I want: I want your head, on a fucking platter, Petrokov. I actually gave your wife a choice. We could shoot you first, put a nice hole in your stomach, and then let you watch while I fuck her. Maybe with my dick. Maybe with a knife."

  My hand tightens convulsively on the handle of my gun. It's warm from my grip, primed, ready.

  "But wouldn't you know it—little Kat here says she hates you. Says she's played along with your shotgun wedding, but that you've done nothing but ruin her life. So I promised her: if she shoots you in the fucking gut, I'll make her death nice and painless."

  My eyes shoot to her jade ones, glittering with unshed tears.

  "Drop your gun, Petrokov. Or I kill her now."

  Kat gasps, and glances back up at him before the barrel on her temple stops her movement.

  "Sorry, little pussycat. Petrokov here should've warned you: I don't always stick to the plan, do I? I'm more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy." He laughs, manic, wheezing.

  I put my hands up and slowly lower the gun to the ground.

  "Kick it over here," Markov says.

  I can't read Kat's eyes. She's begging for something, pleading with me—but does she want me to shoot him? Or is she asking forgiveness for what she's about to do?

  I kick the gun away from me—but to the right. Markov would have to dive for it if he wants it. And I really hope he tries to, because that's one way I could fucking tackle him.

  And kill him.

  "And the other one at your waist. Oh, let's see those pretty ankles, too."

  Fuck. I take my two other guns and place them on the ground, kick them far to the right.

  "It's now or never, Katya." Markov taps the side of her head with his gun. "Goodbye, Petrokov."

  "Goodbye, Gray," Kat says. She hefts the gun up higher, squinting and taking aim. Right at me. "I'm so sorry."

  "Kat," I say, suddenly desperate. She can't do it—she won't. Even if she does hate me, I doubt she could aim that well.

  But with guns, anything could happen.

  So I tell her what I should have told her, days ago, years ago.

  "Kat, I love you."

  Tears are streaming down her face. She closes her eyes once, sobs, then opens them. "I love you, too," she says.

  Then she pulls the trigger—as she swings the gun wildly to her left, hitting Markov across the knees.

  I spring into action, hurtling my body toward Markov.

  "You bitch!" Markov shoots toward Kat. She's moved her body, but not enough. She flies backward, hit, right before I tackle him to the floor.

  He's injured, but he has the devil's strength. I punch him once, twice, when suddenly I feel a searing pain in my side.

  "Just how you killed Solonik, you traitor," Markov whispers in my ear. I gasp. He's punctured a lung, if the hissing in my chest—and my inability to take a breath—is any indication. I'm starting to see red, then black, then red again. But I won't let him go.

  "I'd be a traitor a thousand times over," I hiss, wrapping my arm around his neck, squeezing, squeezing. "I'd gladly die. If I stop men like you from taking over this family—"

  An explosion blinds me temporarily, and afterwards the entire world is one, muted, off-key note.

  It takes a minute for me to realize that Markov is dead in my arms—his stomach obliterated by a shotgun blast.

  I fall backward, and it's only then that Kat's face moves into view.

  "Kat, Kat." I'm speaking but no sound is coming out. Her shoulder is bleeding, shot. But it's okay, she's okay. She's upright, bleeding, but she'll survive.

  And wait—she's speaking, too, but no sound is coming out of her mouth. I watch her talking; it's the prettiest thing I've ever seen. She's holding my head in her hands, she's crying. She places my hand on her stomach.

  "The baby," I say. "Our baby."

  I look at my wife and our unborn child as black shadows creep into my vision. They get bigger and bigger, stealing my life and thoughts away. Kat's getting smaller and smaller and smaller. But I watch her as long as I can.

  It's a good way to die.

  40

  Kat

  Why does it always rain at funerals?

  I remember when my mother died. It rained as we buried her body. I was so young, I thought the sky was crying, just like me.

  And now, another burial. But even though the sky is weeping, I can't bring myself to shed a single tear.

  I place a hand over my bump; five months along and I'm just starting to show. Now I can't stop touching it—her. She's in there, alive and well despite all odds.

  My shoulder doesn't even hurt anymore.

  Well, maybe a tinge. When it rains.

  Elle comes up behind me, wraps an arm around my widening middle, squeezes. "Well, it's all over now. Are you okay?"

  I nod. "I think so. I mean—it doesn't even seem real yet. He'd just gotten back from rehab. He'd been so excited to meet his granddaughter."

  Elle nods, starting to cry. "I can't believe he never told you he had cancer."

  I sighed, a sudden rush of rage and grief hitting me. "He'd had it for years, and ignored it. I can't believe he didn't go to a fucking doctor."

  A pair of warm, large hands circles me from behind, coming to rest on my stomach. "Get it all out now, Katya, because once our daughter's born, I won't have you teaching her all these curse words of yours."

  I smile despite the setting and turn in my husband's arms.

  "Whatever, you bossy, arrogant bastard! You're the one who taught me all these bad words."

  Gray leans down and nuzzles me. I feel him grin against my cheek. "And you use them so well. Especially in bed."

  "Oh my God, get a room, you two!" Elle rolls her eyes but smiles. Then she catches site of Chase, standing back near our car, watching us.

  "I think he wants to talk to you," I whisper. "He's been miserable since you broke up."

  "First of all, we were never really together." She links her arm through mine, and I let her lead me back to our limo. "And secondly, he should have thought of that before he stole my phone and basically helped my friend get kidnapped. And shot. And then have to kill someone."

  I pat her hand. Sometimes I think Elle is more traumatized by what happened than I am. Then again, I try not to think about it. I go to my therapist once a week, but to be honest, I cry about my father—and even climate change and homeless people and all the injustic
es in the world; I am pregnant and super-hormonal, after all—more than I cry about having to kill Grigor Markov.

  He was going to kill my husband. And my unborn child.

  There was no other option but to learn to use a shotgun, right then and there.

  "It wasn't Chase's fault. It was Markov's," I say. "And I know Chase is bossy. And arrogant. And doesn't exactly scream 'meet the parents.' But," I tilt my head back at Gray, who's shaking Father Anthony's hand. "There's hope. My guy didn't turn out so bad."

  Elle smiles a shaky smile, then leans in to give me a kiss. "No, your guy didn't turn out so bad."

  We get to the limo and Elle helps me in, but then keeps standing out in the rain.

  "Don't you want a ride back to O'Malley's?" I say. We're having a real Irish wake tonight at our real, recently refurbished Irish bar. Petrokov Construction did an excellent job with the remodel, though of course, I'm biased.

  I think Gray's the best at whatever he decides to do.

  "Nah," Elle says. "I think I need to just go home, rest a bit. Gloria said she'd drop me off on the way to the bar. I'll catch up with you, and the bump, later."

  We hold hands for a minute. "I love you!" I call as she walks back to her car.

  She whirls around, her long blond hair twirling. "Love you more!"

  Alone, I lean back on the smooth leather seats. For one second, being in the back seat, the leather, causes me to flash back to being bound in the back of Markov's stolen car.

  I breathe like my therapist taught me, place my hands over my heart, close my eyes.

  This is real leather. It's new. I'm safe. Gray's alive. I'm alive. Our baby—who kicks me at that exact moment—is alive.

  Maybe we'll even live happily ever after.

  I hear the driver's car door open, and the engine suddenly revs—and we take off!

  "Wait!" I shout, "Wait! My husband's still back there!"

  I frantically push the buttons on the door, trying to lower the limo's privacy shield. Finally I hit the right one and the smoky gray glass retracts…to reveal my husband, laughing, and wearing the limo driver's black cap.