His Tesoro: An Arranged Marriage Age Gap Mafia Romance (Empire of Royals Book 1)
His Tesoro: Chapter 71

Car horns blared at us as Leona wove in and out of the Chicago traffic, each one raising my blood pressure.

“It’s rather inconvenient of them to hold the ceremony during rush-hour,” she said as she cut off another car.

“I’m not sure convenience was on their mind,” I bit out.

“Do you know the church?” Ronan asked. He was clutching the door and his seat as Leona took another turn too quickly.

“Not well. It’s the one I got married in, but I was just there briefly for the ceremony.”

“Ahh, wonderful. Filled with good memories, I’m sure,” Leona deadpanned.

If my chest wasn’t so tight I could barely form words, I might have laughed.

“The ceremony has already started,” she continued. “So we’re going to make quite an entrance.”

Ronan ran his hand down his face with an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at stealth? Any ideas for ways we can rescue Mila without all of us dying in the process?”

Leona shrugged. “I always have time to plan and gather intel before my missions. It’s kind of exciting to fly by the seat of our pants. Maybe I should try it more often.”

“Leona,” Ronan growled.

“So touchy,” Leona said, her voice tinkling with laughter.

Ronan locked eyes with me over his shoulder, and I knew we were both mentally preparing for our imminent deaths.

Leona took another turn, and I saw the church ahead of us. She parked right in front. “I have a good feeling about today. Things are going to work out.”

Just then, three black G-wagons pulled up beside us, blocking us in.

“So glad you had a fucking good feeling,” Ronan said, reaching for his gun.

The passenger door of the first car flew open and someone familiar got out. I threw my door open, uncaring that the man was pointing his gun at me.

“Dimi!” I shouted, tears streaking down my cheeks.

My brother swore, holstering his weapon and ordering his men to stand down. He ran to me, pulling me into a firm hug. “What are you doing here, Sofiya?”

“Same thing as you, I’m assuming. Rescuing Mila.”

He swore. “You two will be the fucking death of me. Stay in the car while we take care of this.”

He released me and motioned to his men, who had all exited the cars. They ran up the church stairs and disappeared through the front door.

“What are the odds we’re going to stay here?” Ronan asked.

“Negative ten,” Leona responded. She reached into the glove compartment and handed me a pistol. I checked to see it was loaded and then tucked it in the back of my jeans.

“I thought so,” Ronan said. “Fucking Mafia women.” He got out of the car and offered me his arm, half carrying me up the stairs to the church. He insisted on going through the door first, which made Leona roll her eyes, and then the three of us crept through the empty lobby to the sanctuary.

What I saw when I peered through the window into the sanctuary made my blood run cold, and I didn’t hesitate to throw the door open.

The Pakhan was at the front of the church. My mother stood beside him wearing a lurid neon-yellow satin dress. But she barely registered in my mind because my father’s arm was around Mila as he pressed a knife to her throat, while his other hand held a gun.

Dimitri stood in the church aisle, staring down our father. “You’ve lost,” he said. “Your men are loyal to me.” I glanced around the room to see all the Bratva soldiers, men I’d known all my life, facing my father with guns drawn.

“Traitors!” the Pakhan screamed. His eyes were wild, and it terrified me. He was a man with nothing to lose.

I continued my walk up the aisle, willing my knees and hips to stay strong. There was no way to get a clear shot when he was holding Mila in front of him. But maybe I could distract him, do something, anything, to save my sister.

My father’s eyes locked on me, filled with cruelty, and the barrel of his gun drifted to point at my chest. “My other useless daughter,” he sneered.

Each furious pounding of my heart urged me on. Do something. Do something. Do something.

“Are you really going to murder both your daughters? And your unborn grandchild?” My voice was steady and filled with contempt.

My mama inhaled sharply, and Mila’s eyes widened as they flicked down to my stomach.

The Pakhan let out a harsh burst of laughter. “My defective daughter and the weak Mafia Don are having a baby. What a perfect match.” He waved the knife around as he spoke, and my palms grew slick with sweat.

“Is this”—I waved my hand—“really how you want to be remembered?”

He let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Remembered? You seem to be under the delusion that I won’t be leaving here alive.”

A barrage of gunshots sounded from outside, and all of us froze. My mind whirred as I tried to figure out who was shooting. Dimi’s eyes met mine, and he subtly shook his head. His men weren’t responsible for those gunshots.

My armpits were soaked with sweat, and I breathed through a wave of dizziness. I kept my eyes fixed on the Pakhan, ignoring the neon flash of movement behind him.

“It’s over, Rustik,” Dimi said, raising his voice over the cacophony outside. “You’ve lost.”

“The fuck I have!” he screamed. His arms flailed in agitation, momentarily loosening his hold on Mila.

Everything happened at once in a blur of sound and color. My mother’s hands closed around the heavy candelabra on the altar. She lifted it and struck her husband hard across the back of his head. He let out a pained roar and turned towards my mama, gun raised. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled my pistol out from behind my back, the movement fluid, automatic.

I took aim and pulled the trigger.

The bullet went straight into the side of the Pakhan’s head. Blood bloomed from the wound like a flower, and then he crumpled to the ground.

This man who had caused so much pain—in his own family, in countless lives unknown—was dead.

I glanced around the room, heart pounding in fear that the Bratva men would turn on me, but none moved. A few raised their chins at me in a sign of respect.

The heavy candelabra slipped from my mother’s grasp, hitting the marble floor with a loud clang.

“Spasibo, mama,” I said.

She met my gaze, and there was the briefest flash of something in her eyes—fire, determination—and then it was gone, replaced by the familiar blankness that pervaded my childhood.

And then the back door to the church crashed open.