The back exit leads to an alley where black SUVs wait with engines running. He deposits me in the middle vehicle, sliding in beside me as Benedetto takes the front seat.
My vision starts to blur as shock sets in. The pain is becoming distant, replaced by cold numbness spreading down my arm.
“Alaric,” I whisper as darkness creeps in from the edges.
“I’m here. Stay awake.”
But the most important thing needs to be said before I lose consciousness entirely.
“I couldn’t let them take you from me.”
The confession slips out, honest and raw and terrifying in its simplicity. Through the haze of blood loss, I see something shift in his green eyes.
“Kasi—”
But the darkness is stronger than his voice, pulling me under as everything fades to black.
28
ALARIC
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I stare at them. These hands that have pulled triggers, signed death sentences, built an empire from blood and bullets, and yet, they tremble like a child’s. There’s still blood under my fingernails. Her blood.
The private medical suite at Mount Sinai smells like antiseptic and expensive flowers. Dr. Patterson assured me the surgery went perfectly, that the bullet missed everything vital, and that she’ll be fine in a few weeks. But I can’t get the image out of my head of Kasimira throwing herself across that table, the crack of gunfire, blood spreading across white silk.
She took a bullet meant for me.
“Sir?” Benedetto’s voice cuts through my spiral. “The security footage from the restaurant.”
I take the tablet he offers, forcing myself to focus on business. The camera angles show everything—the coordinated attack, the precision of their movements, the moment Kasimira spotted the threat.
“Russian crew,” I say, watching the gunmen emerge from the kitchen. “Viktor’s people?”
“Boris Petrov’s nephew, Alexei. The one who escaped Miami.” Benedetto points to the lead shooter. “Looks like he decided to finish what his uncle started.”
“Where is he now?”
“Morgue. Along with his entire team.”
Good. But that doesn’t erase the image of Kasimira’s blood on my hands, the sound she made when the bullet hit.
“Boss?” Benedetto sits in the chair across from me. “She’s going to be okay.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you look like you’re planning a funeral.”
The observation hits closer to home than I want to admit. For three hours, while surgeons worked to repair the damage, I sat in this same chair imagining the worst. Planning revenge scenarios. Calculating how many people would die if I lost her.
When did she become so essential to my survival?
“She saved my life,” I say quietly.
“Yeah. She did.”
“She’s not trained for this. She doesn’t understand the risks, the protocols. She’s just a girl who got caught up in this world by accident.”
