He watches me with the same focused stare he had while grilling me about my family’s “legitimate business expansion strategies” over caviar and vodka, and I hate how much my body likes being on the receiving end of it.
I slide my phone into my clutch and reply, “I didn’t realize you were interested in Russian Imperial art, Mr. Haugh.” My tone makes it clear I don’t mean the egg.
“I’m interested in a lot of things.” He steps closer, and I catch other details I missed at the wedding. The silver chain at his throat flashes under the light. His hands are strong, rough with old calluses that don’t fit a white-collar job.
The way he holds himself is balanced and coiled, always aware. It reminds me more of Dmitri’s security team than any journalist. “Especially stories about provenance fraud in the Moscow art market. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“That depends on whether you’re planning to quote me.”
“Off the record. For now.” He flashes me a smirk and a quick wink, and God help me, my heart skips. The reaction Dmitri would lose his mind over.
“What brings an American journalist to a gallery opening? This seems outside your usual beat.”
“My usual beat is wherever the story takes me. And right now, I’m following a lead about a recent acquisition that may have connections to?—”
The front entrance explodes inward before he can finish.
Four men in black masks and tactical gear pour through the shattered doors, automatic weapons raised. Guests scream and scatter, champagne flutes shattering as they run. One of themasked men fires a burst into the ceiling, and plaster rains down on the fleeing crowd.
Tony grabs my arm and yanks me behind a marble column as bullets rip through the display cases I was standing beside seconds ago.
Glass explodes in glittering showers, and a Kandinsky original drops from the wall with a hole through its center.
“Stay down,” Tony commands, but I’m already moving.
My brothers didn’t raise a helpless princess.
I crouch low and scan for exits, counting attackers and working out angles the way Boris drilled into me during those summers at the estate, back when Dmitri thought I was learning ballet.
He was a police captain before he became Dmitri’s security chief. Taught me to assess threats, find cover, and never assume the first exit is the safest one.
Two break left toward the main gallery. One stays on the entrance. The last one makes straight for the vault…
This isn’t random violence. They know exactly what they want.
Tony moves before I can blink.
He doesn’t rush—he times it, sliding out from behind the column the second the nearest attacker’s attention flicks to the crowd. His fist drives into the man’s throat.
The man drops, gagging. Tony catches the falling rifle by the sling, yanks it close, and uses the stock like a hammer against the second man’s face. Blood sprays. The attacker folds to the floor.
No journalist moves like that.
The third man swings his weapon toward Tony, but he’s already there, inside his guard. He takes a glancing hit—metal scraping his forearm. He doesn’t even flinch, just wrenches the rifle free with brutal efficiency that makes my breath catch.
Three seconds.
That’s how long it takes him to disable three armed men.
The fourth attacker—the one heading for the vault—pivots and opens fire.
Tony slams into me, and we hit the floor hard behind an overturned display pedestal. His body covers mine, every inch of solid muscle pressed against me as bullets punch through wood and shred the carpet inches from my head. His heartbeat thuds against my spine, steady and controlled, like he’s done this before.
“Don’t move,” he says into my ear.
Like I could move even if I wanted to. Solid muscle and heat pin me in place, his body a shield between me and every bullet.
But then, the shooting stops just as suddenly as it started, followed by the unmistakable sound of an empty magazine. He’s out of ammo.
