She leaned—close enough to see the fine hairs on her face. At that moment, the last strand broke. My hands were free. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed her collar with everything I had, yanked her toward me, and drove my knee hard into her stomach.
"Ah!" she folded over; a gun slipped from her hand and clattered on the deck.
Before she could recover, I had her by the hair with one hand and the blade pressed to her throat with the other.
"Don't move!" I snapped.
Natasha went rigid. She could feel the steel; that thin sliver would cut with the smallest pressure. The two men guarding me raised their weapons instantly, cold barrels aimed.
"Drop her!" one shouted.
"You drop your guns first!" I pulled Natasha in front of me like a shield, pressing the blade harder into her pale neck.
She tried to struggle, then hissed and looked down—there was a fine line of blood seeping under the blade.
"No!" Her voice trembled. "I-I'm not moving."
She shook like a leaf. That arrogant, furious woman finally felt fear.
"Tell them to drop their guns," I ordered.
She did, but the men hesitated, guns still leveled.
"I said drop them!" Natasha screamed, fear sharpening her voice into something thin and ugly. "You idiots! She'll kill me!"
The deck froze for a beat. Salvatore turned and saw me holdingNatasha; his face went ashen. My eyes slid past him to Igor. He watched me, pride bright in his gaze. Then, with a small smile at one corner of his mouth, he made a downward sweep with his hand.
Casual—but it detonated everything.
Gunfire exploded from every direction—off the sides of the boat, from the dark sea, from places I couldn't even see.
Red laser dots flared on Salvatore's men, and bullets rained down.
The two men guarding me didn't even get a chance to turn. Both heads blew open at once. There was no time to scream. I clung to Natasha, using her body to shield whatever flying metal might reach me.
Black-clad men rappelled from the upper deck, clambered over the rail, even surfaced from the water, and hauled themselves aboard. They moved like professionals—silent, lethal, synchronized.
A few of Salvatore's men tried to return fire, but they fell before they could pull triggers. Some sprinted for the cabin and were cut down in two steps, bullets in the back.
"Get off me!" Natasha shrieked in my arms, thrashing. "Fuck! You'll all die! Every one of you!"
I didn't listen. I kept the blade pressed to her artery.
Igor moved like a predator. He pounced on the nearest thug, stripped the gun from his hand, twisted a wrist until there was a sick crack. He spun the weapon and fired—three shots, three men down.
His movements were clean and lethal. He wasted nothing. The battle continued, but the tide had turned.
Salvatore stood in the center of the deck, watching his men fall, his face the color of concrete. He knew he was losing. He wasn't going to surrender. He fumbled for a silver pistol at his waist and aimed it at Igor's back.
Igor was wrestling another man and hadn't seen it.
"Careful!" I yelled.
He whirled. A bullet tore across his shoulder, ripping the fabric of his black suit, but he barely flinched.
He lunged at Salvatore. They collided with brutal force; the gun flew from Salvatore's hand and skittered across the deck.It wasn't a choreographed movie fight—no flashy moves, no flips—just raw, vicious brawling. Every punch aimed to end it.
Salvatore, old but vicious, landed a blow to Igor's ribs. Igor grunted—my chest tightened—but his eyes stayed hard, focused. Salvatore swung for his face; Igor leaned, avoided it, and snapped an elbow into his nose.
