Vlad’s hand shifts at my back, a tiny press.
It’s a warning. A countdown.
CHAPTER 40
VLAD
“It’s over,” I tell her.
“Over?” she echoes, smile waning. From the front of the house there’s another burst of gunfire, shouts ricocheting down the hall. “You mistake noise for victory, Vladimir.”
I shift my weight, letting my coat fall to shadow my hip, angling my left side in front of Teresa. Cold metal kisses the back of my skull.
“Don’t,” Jack orders, husky with adrenaline and cheap bravado.
Of course.
I don’t turn. His breath hits the nape of my neck, excited and eager. He wants the moment to feel big. He wants me to know he has the upper hand.
“You could’ve killed me in the park,” I say. “You didn’t. You screwed up.”
“Well, now we get our grand finale,” he says, amused. “You die last.”
He’s shaking. Fear does that. So does drug addiction.
“Jack.” Teresa’s voice is clean, tempered. “I’m giving you one more chance. As your sister. Put the gun down. Walk away.”
“Spare me,” he snaps. “We’re family in name only.”
That’s all she needed to hear.
Teresa pivots and drives her fist into his face, a perfect snap from the shoulder. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective. Jack grunts and flinches, the gun wobbles.
I drop. One arm hooks Teresa’s waist and yanks her down with me as Jack reflexively fires. The shot cracks through the air, and Trina gasps, staggering as a red bloom spreads beneath the black silk at her ribs. Even wounded, she snaps her wrist and squeezes once. A wisp of heat licks high across my right shoulder.
My hand moves to my ankle holster. Leather sighs, steel slides, and the world narrows to a clean sight of Jack’s chest. I put a single round through the center of his sternum. He jerks back into the glass case behind him, its antique contents falling to the floor. He slides down the wall like he’s melting, gun clattering across the floor. For a heartbeat he stares up at the ceiling. Then his eyes roll, and he’s still.
Trina sways. She’s fighting the shock and pain, rage and adrenaline keeping her upright when physics argues otherwise. Her mouth opens, one last poisoned line ready to fly. It never makes it out. She folds at the waist, hitting the parquet with a breathy sigh, delicate to the end.
Silence for a beat. Then the battle’s noise rushes back in—shouts from outside, boots pounding on stone, the faint, frantic whine of a security system going off.
Teresa trembles under my hand. Her eyes go to Jack, then to Trina, then to me. They’re filled with horror, relief, and fierce emotion.
“It’s done,” I say, scanning the corners, the thresholds, the sightlines. “We’re leaving.”
I haul her up, tucking her against my left side, my right arm close to my body because the joint is hot and numb. Adrenaline is a generous liar. I let it lie.
We move through the gallery, past the glass cases and the portraits, into a corridor where the carpet swallows our footsteps. At the far end, a door bursts open, silver ties catching the low light.
“Boss.” Dmitri is flanked by two Angels, guns low and hot. His gaze flicks past me to the gallery behind, then notes the angle of my coat, the way Teresa’s leaning. He doesn’t ask for the play-by-play, he never does.
“Turncoats?” I ask.
“Down,” he says. “We mopped the bastards. Volkov’s still alive. Gut shot. Our medics are stabilizing him; one of our ambulances is inbound to pull him out quietly.”
“Good.”
Dmitri’s eyes narrow. “We’ll need space for you in that ambulance too.”
