Mikhail

29

I don't remember the last time I had seen a gun in my father's hand.

It was aimed at Mikhail, behind whom I cowered pathetically, arm clutching the remnants of the upper half of my gown together.

But it hadn't been my father's gun that fired. It had been Mogilevich's, standing behind him, having fired a warning shot at the ground by my head.

"I know this looks bad," I began, trying to disarm the uncomfortable and tensioned situation.

There's no buts. This is bad.

I was able to catch glimpses of the two furious men from my position behind the giant Slav.

They had rushed outdoors, their men trailing after their blazing fury, expecting to find either one of us dead. Instead, they found us bloodied and dirtied, with Mikhail's cock buried in me.

"It looks a lot worse, Natasha," my father gritted out, threatening and harsh eyes burning in to the man towering between us.

"Lower your gun," Mogilevich ordered, his now aiming at the side of my father's head. My blood ran cold.

In a fraction of a second our men had aimed their guns at Mogilevich, ready to fire. This was mirrored by Mogilevich's men against ours.

Unfazed by the aim on him and the stand-off, my father demanded, unwavering stare on the silenced Mikhail, "get away from him."

My lips pursed together, observing the situation. Shame and guilt flowed through me, my father's disappointment immobilising every possible movement.

I hadn't been able to kill him, nor had he been able to kill me.

Now everything went up in flames.

Hidden from the rest, the tips of my fingers brushed over Mikhail's lower back, covered by the drenched and dirtied dress shirt. I could only imagine the mess I was, my entire body aching from our fight and how it had ended.

He tensed at my gentle touch, but remained at the end of my father's gun without complaint, returning his glare murderously.

Each of the men itched to finally shoot one another, and I knew the only way to disarm them was to comply.

Clutching the top of my torn gown over my chest, I slipped away from behind Mikhail before he had a chance to voice his objection.

I stared at my father coldly, closing the distance between us while his focus remained on the man I left.

"Everything's-" I began carefully, reaching him.

His hand collided with the side of my face and I was knocked to the wet ground with a strangled cry, my vision growing hazy.

Without so much as a word Mikhail strode over my limp frame and delivered a crippling punch against his jaw. My father fell back in to the arms of one our men, groaning at the pain.

My eyes widened with panic, knowing what would ensue. I scrambled to my feet, my jaw aching from the harsh slap.

Our guns aimed at Mikhail, cocking as they waited for my father to gather himself and give them the go-ahead.

"Stop," Mogilevich's infuriated tone boomed, and for once I agreed with him.

We were at war, made worse by my treacherous activities, and if one was to fire now we'd all end up dead. 

Digging the knife further in to the wound, I placed myself between our men and Mikhail, spent, throbbing and determined, one arm around my feebly covered chest as the other raised to halt our men.