My fingers find the panic button. I press it hard, holding it down.
“She’s signaling someone,” the second man says sharply.
The first man reaches for my arm. I jerk backward, knocking into the chair behind me. It tips, clatters to the floor.
“Help!” My voice comes out louder than I expected, cutting through the restaurant chatter. “Someone help me!”
The restaurant erupts. People turn, stand, and start to move. The man who was eating at the table next to us—older, heavyset, wearing a business suit—lunges forward without hesitation. “Leave her alone!”
One of the Kozlov men shoves him back hard. He crashes into his own table, sending dishes and glasses flying. His wife screams.
Other people are shouting now. Someone yells about calling the police. A waiter drops his tray.
Mason is frozen near the booth, his face white, eyes wide. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
“You idiot.” I’m backing away from the table, from the Kozlov men, but there’s nowhere to go. “You brought me here to die.”
“No. They said they just wanted to scare you. They said?—”
The first man grabs my wrist. His grip is iron, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He starts dragging me toward the kitchen, toward the back exit.
“Let go of her!” Mason suddenly moves, grabbing the man’s arm.
The Kozlov man doesn’t even hesitate. His free hand comes up fast, backhanding Mason across the face. The sound is sickening, a wet crack that echoes through the chaos.
Mason goes down hard. Blood pours from his nose, maybe from his mouth. I can’t tell.
I’m fighting now. Kicking, twisting, trying to break free. But the man is too strong, and I’m pregnant, off-balance, my center of gravity all wrong.
“Please.” My voice breaks. “Please don’t do this.”
“Your husband should have thought about that before he killed Viktor.”
He’s pulling me toward the kitchen door. I grab onto a table edge, try to anchor myself, but he just yanks harder, and I lose my grip.
And then I hear it.
Gunfire.
Not inside the restaurant. Outside. In the parking lot.
The Kozlov men freeze. All three of them turn toward the sound.
More shots. Closer now. People are screaming, diving under tables, running for the exits.
“Volkov’s men,” one of them hisses in Russian. “We need to move. Now.”
They try to drag me faster toward the kitchen exit, but I’m dead weight now, dropping to the floor, making myself as heavy as possible. One of them grabs my other arm, and together they haul me up.
The front windows explode inward. Glass rains down, glittering in the afternoon light. People are shrieking, crawling, trying to get away from the chaos. And through the shattered window, I see him.
Ledger.
Gun drawn, face like death itself, moving through the restaurant like he was born for this. Silas is behind him, and at least three other men I recognize from the penthouse security.
Our eyes meet across the chaos. For a second, everything else falls away. The screaming, the gunfire, the hands still gripping my arms. It’s just him and me and the promise in his eyes.
I’m getting you out.
