I reach for Sienna’s arm, my pulse thudding hard. “Sienna, we need to go.”
She starts to protest, and that’s when the first gunshot cracks through the music.
The sound is deafening. Screams erupt as people shove and stumble, drinks spilling, chairs crashing to the floor. The lights flash red, white, red—like a siren—and for a split second, I see him. One of the men from the mezzanine, gun drawn, eyes locked on Sienna.
“Down!” I shout, shoving her hard.
Another shot rings out.
Sienna gasps—soft and shocked—and collapses against me. For a heartbeat, I don’t register the blood blooming across her gold dress, too bright, too much. Then it’s everywhere.
“No,” I choke out, lowering her to the floor as chaos explodes around us. People are screaming, running. Someone shoves me from behind, and pain tears through my side—hot and searing as another shot rings out.
I hit the floor beside Sienna, gasping. My hand flies to my side, and it comes away slick. Blood. My blood.
Sienna’s eyes are glassy, wide.
“Birdie…” she whispers, voice trembling, breaths shallow. “I fucked up.”
“Shh. I’m here,” I say, my voice shaking so hard I barely recognize it. “You’re okay, just stay with me?—”
“Take care of my Dad…”
Gunfire erupts again and glass shatters somewhere above us. I curl over her, shielding her body with mine, the air thick with smoke and screams. In this moment I don’t care if I die because my world means nothing if I lose Sienna.
Someone’s shouting in Italian. I can barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. Dark shapes rush in through the haze with their weapons drawn. One of them yells Sienna’s name, and hands grab me, pulling me away from my best friend. Sienna’s face slips out of focus as they lift me. My head spins, blood roaring in my ears.
I try to reach for her, but my vision’s already going dark.
“Sienna…”
The world narrows to flashing lights, gunfire, and the deep, furious sound of Lorenzo’s voice cutting through it all.
Then everything goes black.
7
Lorenzo
The call comes through at 11:42 p.m.
I’m still listening to Fran bitch about the dinner when my phone buzzes once—three short vibrations, my men’s emergency code. I dial Cesaro, not caring that Fran is pissed that I’m ignoring her.
“What is it?” I demand.
“The girls are at an old library on LaSalle, and they’ve got company,” Cesaro answers. His voice is too calm, which means it’s bad.
I don’t remember telling Fran to leave my home as I crossed the room or leaving the building. The next thing I know, I’m in the SUV, the city lights slicing past in long, jagged streaks. My pulse is a steady drumbeat in my throat, my hands flexing restlessly in my lap. It’s a five-minute drive with the speed we’re going, but it feels longer.
Sienna disobeying me isn’t new. Sienna in danger is.
The sound of a gunshot reaches us before we even turn the corner. Then the second. Then screaming.
“Move!” I bark, shoving the door open before the SUV even stops.
The street outside is chaos as people spill from the building, some bleeding, some crying, all running. Cesaro and the others form up instantly, weapons drawn, clearing a path as I storm toward the entrance.
Inside, the smell hits me first—copper and gunpowder. Music still floats through the speakers somewhere, warped and broken, like the club is trying to pretend nothing happened.
