The first shot.
A sharp, cracking echo explodes through the room like a whip.
Ford jolts back instantly, a bloom of crimson erupting across his chest, soaking through his white shirt in thick arterial splashes as he collapses onto the stairs behind him. He clutches at the wound, fingers scrabbling uselessly, blood bubbling between them.
My mouth opens wide in shock.
The second shot.
Dex stumbles, a wet gurgling sound slipping from his throat. His fingers twitch as he reaches for something—anything—but there’s nothing to hold on to. His hand trails the air as if grasping for life itself. He looks out, and his eyes lock with mine, wide with pain.
The third shot.
My father’s body stiffens violently, his spine snapping straight like a struck puppet. A strangled grunt forces its way out of his mouth before he crumples to the floor. The bourbon glass slips from his grip, shattering against the marble-like brittle bone. Blood pours from the perfect circular hole in the center of his forehead, thick and dark, snaking down his face in sluggish streams.
The world stops.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t blink.
My father.
My brothers.
Dexter turns his head toward Hayden, who is behind me, holding his gaze for just a moment—one last look—before he begins to fall. His body collapses like dead weight, thundering down the stairs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The noise is grotesque, his limbs bending in odd angles with every bounce.
Blood pours freely now, a thick, spreading flood across the marbled floor, seeping into the delicate cracks and drowning the cream runner staircase rug my mother once so proudly chose.
Someone is screaming—louder now. A raw, animalistic sound tears through the stunned silence as Dex’s body lands at the foot of the stairs with a sickening thump.
It’s me. I realize I’m the one screaming as I see Fordham’s lifeless body slumped against the cherrywood banister. Splashesof blood stain the cream carpeting, streaked across the gleaming marble tiles like something out of a butcher’s shop.
The champagne glass I’ve been gripping suddenly cracks in my hand. Shards slice into my palm and warm liquid—champagne or blood, I can’t tell—splashes my skin as it falls, shattering beside me.
A hand clamps around my wrist, and another tightens its grip around my waist. Strong and unrelenting. Pulling me back into the crowd of guests screaming and running for the exit.
Hayden.
“Martine,” his voice is sharp, cutting through the fog in my mind. “We have to go.”
“No.” I struggle against his grip. “No, no, no—” I try to push forward and run towards them. Run to my older twin brothers who are dying in front of me in pools of their blood. I hear a gurgle come from Dex, and I try to rush forward, screaming out for him.
Not my Dex. My fierce bear-like protector who could pull a laugh from deep in my belly just as easily as he could hurt anyone who so much as looked at me the wrong way.
Not Ford, the spiritual equivalent of my debaucherous equal. My best friend.
“No, no, no—” I continue to sob.
“We need to go.” Hayden's words are cold as his grip remains unmoving around my torso. Absolute in his movements, but beneath his words, there’s a threat I’m supposed to listen to.
I don’t believe him. I don’t want to believe him.
I continue my sobbing chant, my hands slippery with champagne and blood as I try to release myself from Hayden, who has a firm grip around my waist while trying to pull me back from my dying family.
