I’m laughing again, burying my face in her hair. “It’s okay.”
Behind me, Marco whispers a strained, “Oh, shit.”
That’s when a gunshot rings out.
Chapter 4
Not A Water Pistol
Hannah
It all happens too fast to make sense.
One moment, I’m half-collapsed on the bench, my mouth sour, Damian’s arms locked around me like he’s anchoring me to the earth.
The next—
People are screaming.
A gunshot cracks through the air.
Damian doesn’t hesitate. He presses me to him and drops us both to the floor, rolling us under the table. The white tablecloth spills down around us, a thin, useless veil.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I glance down and see something silver flash in his hand.
“Damian,” I hiss, every nerve lighting up.
“Shh.” His voice is calm.Waytoo calm.
He presses himself flat to the floor and inches forward, peering out from beneath the tablecloth like this is just another Tuesday night.
“Damian,” I whisper again, panic crawling up my spine.
“What?” he mutters, still peeking from beneath the tablecloth.
“Is that a gun?” My voice drops to a wobble. “Like…arealgun?”
Because now that I’m actually looking at it—it totally is.
Small. Sleek. Heavy-looking. The kind evenIcould fire if I absolutely lost my mind.
“Well,” he says mildly, not turning around, “it’s not a water pistol.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
“But why?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from the cold gleam of metal in his hand.
“Because Marco is a drug dealer—”
“What?!”
“With Mafia ties—”
“WHAT?!”
“And I think,” he adds calmly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “we just got caught in a turf war.”
