Orlov is gone before the last word lands.
“The window,” Damien says to no one in particular. Rage flashes in his eyes. “Someone aimed for that room. That’s inside knowledge.” He looks at Alex. “Find me the leak.”
My stomach drops. The mirror. The timing. Someone knew exactly where we were.
“Let the guests out in groups,” he adds. “Phones in baskets. No videos leave this house.”
Alex gives orders into his radio, crews instantly moving. The party dissolves into orderly lines following instructions.
I grimace as my arm throbs under the linen. Damien notices. He pulls a clean cloth napkin from a nearby table and adjusts the wrap. His fingers are careful, his eyes scanning the room while he helps me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
His eyes flick to mine for a beat. “You’re welcome.”
A guard jogs up with an update. “Cameras caught a partial—three angles, east road. No face on the shooter. Exit path clean. Spent casings on the street.”
“Bag them and route to analysis. Check the gate logs. I want the exact minute it was opened last and the badge that did it,” Damien says. “Then freeze the badges.”
Ivan drifts closer. “Big night,” he says. “People are going to be talking about this Christmas bash for years.”
“Go sober up,” Damien says coldly and uninterested.
Ivan takes a step back. “Relax. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Get him out of my sight,” Damien tells Alex.
Damien turns back to me after the brothers walk away, checking the wrap again. The linen is pink now, no longer red as the blood flow subsides. “We’re going to medical,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going,” he repeats. “You’ll be checked, then you’ll be upstairs with a guard at your door. You don’t move without me.”
I nod, touched by his concern and need to protect me. “Okay.”
We pass the shattered mirror on the way. The two bullet holes look at us like eyes. Glass lies on the floor like glittery trash.
“Someone knew,” I say. “They knew where we were.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
“And when.”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t add what we’re both thinking, that the hit was personal.
We enter the side hall where EMTs are staged. A woman in a navy uniform and blue gloves takes my vitals, checks the graze, cleans it, and redresses it. “You got lucky,” she says. “You’re good to go. Keep it clean.”
Damien thanks her and turns to me. “Come. Police will be here soon.”
I fall in at his side as we walk.
The ballroom empties as people line up, give their statements, then leave with their coats and shaken smiles. When it’s my turn, I keep it short and clean, just like Damien told me. Name. WhereI was at the time of the shooting. What I heard. What I saw. Nothing extra. No theories.
Privacy, precision, truth.
Damien stands beside me the whole time—like a warning label the cops can read. I answer questions, sign the statement, and hand the pen back. The officer thanks me and moves on.
