“You sure about this?”
I scan the room again, cataloguing details. The busboy has abandoned all pretense of working and is standing near thekitchen doors. The sommelier has moved closer to our section of the restaurant. The man at the bar is openly staring now.
“We need to leave,” I whisper. “Right now.”
Alaric signals for the check, but the waiter who took our order is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a different server approaches—older, with cold eyes that don’t match his professional smile.
“Is everything satisfactory?” he asks.
“Actually, we need to leave,” Alaric says.
“Of course, sir. Let me just get your check.”
But he doesn’t move toward the register. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen doors.
That’s when I see them.
Three men in chef’s whites are standing just inside the kitchen entrance, and they’re not holding cooking utensils. The nervous waiter who served us has dropped all pretense and is reaching beneath his apron.
Time slows to crystalline clarity.
“Gun!” I shout.
The kitchen doors burst open as the three men charge out, weapons raised. Our waiter’s nervous act disappears as he pulls a pistol from beneath his apron. The busboy abandons his cart and draws from his belt.
“Down!” Alaric yells, reaching for his own weapon.
But they’re too close, too fast. I see the muzzle flash, hear the crack of gunfire.
Without thinking, I throw myself across the table.
The bullet meant for Alaric catches me in the shoulder instead, spinning me around. Pain explodes through my body like lightning, but I land on top of him, covering him with my body as glass shatters around us.
“Kasi!” His voice is raw with panic. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding!”
Blood soaks through my dress, spreading across the white fabric. My shoulder burns like molten metal, but I can still move my arm.
“Are you hit?” I gasp.
“No, but you are, you crazy?—”
More gunfire erupts around us. Benedetto and his men have appeared from somewhere, returning fire across the elegant dining room. Other diners scream and dive for cover as bullets shatter wine glasses and pierce expensive artwork.
Alaric pulls me behind our overturned table, his hands pressing against my shoulder to slow the bleeding. The pressure makes me see stars.
“Stay with me,” he commands. “Keep your eyes open.”
Blood runs between his fingers. More than there should be. The shoulder joint feels wrong, disconnected, like something important tore when the bullet hit.
Through the chaos, I see one of the gunmen go down. Then another.
“Sir!” One of Benedetto’s men appears beside us. “Car’s ready. Back exit, now!”
Alaric scoops me up without hesitation, one arm beneath my knees and the other supporting my back. The movement sends fire through my shoulder, but I bite back the scream.
“I can walk.”
“Shut up.”
