The sound cuts through the silence like a knife.
A shout. No, not a shout.
A gunshot.
The crack of it echoes off the brick walls, and I freeze, every muscle locking with the rapid onset of fear. My brain can't process what I've just heard, can't reconcile that sound with the soft drizzle falling so peacefully, with the party continuing inside just yards away.
Another shot.
My body moves before my mind catches up, and I pivot toward the sound. I should run the other way. I should run back inside, find security or call 911. I should do anything except what I'm doing, which is creeping forward, my heels silent on the damp ground.
There's a dumpster halfway down the alley, and I press myself against it, peering around its edge.
Three men.
Another on his knees in front of them. A foot away from him in the ground is a gun.
The kneeling man is pleading in a language I don't understand, his words tumbling out rapid-fire and desperate. He's wearing an expensive suit, but it’s crumpled and disheveled.
One of the men is pointing a gun at him.
But it’s not just any man.
It’s the sexy stranger I was just speaking to inside the gallery. The one with the champagne and the dangerous smile and the joke about being in the mafia.
The one I’d just fantasized about getting under.
Is this what the phone call was about?
He says something in what sounds like Russian, his voice cold and final, and nothing like what I’d heard inside.
And then he pulls the trigger.
"No," I breathe, so quiet it's barely a sound. "No, no, no."
The kneeling man crumples, his body hitting the ground with a soft thump.
I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't do anything except stare at the body and the blood spreading onto the cobblestones beneath it.
The stranger turns.
And looks directly at me.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. His face is expressionless, but something flickers in those cold eyes. Probably the same thing that flickers in the eyes of a lion right before he rips you apart.
Then his gaze drops slowly down the length of my body. Even from this distance, I feel it like a physical touch, and some animal part of my brain understands exactly what that look means.
I’m the prey.
Goosebumps tear along my skin.
Run, Holly.
I kick off my ridiculous heels and bolt.
Behind me, heavy footsteps pound against stone. I don't look back. I just run, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that cloud in the frozen air.
The alley opens onto a street I don't recognize. Left or right? I choose left because it's downhill and I can run faster. The softrain makes everything slippery and treacherous. But I can’t slow down because I can hear them getting closer.
