I reach for the box and discover that it’s almost weightless.
Theater.
Like the key in the resin surrounded by twenty million in diamonds.
Jordan wheels toward the door. “Kirill!”
Even I notice the shift in air as the door swings open. Without conscious thought, I pull my gun and push Jordan behind me, shielding her with my body as I shove the gift box into her hands.
I expect Eleanor, or Hearst, or a bored security goon.
Instead, three men with tailored suits so black they eat the light enter the room. They move in lockstep, each gesture precise and measured. Not Falcone’s usual muscle.
No cheap suits or bravado.
These are the men you send when you don’t want survivors.
Behind me, Jordan sucks in a sharp breath, her hand gripping the back of my wool jacket.
“Kirill…”
I rip the jacket off and plant myself between Jordan and the threat, balancing on the balls of my feet. I fight better with free arm movement. “Who the fuck are you?”
The lead man’s face is the color of chalk, his eyes so blank, dead, and empty, they almost shine. He could pass for fucking Dracula.
His gaze flickers to the gift box Jordan clutches and lingers. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.
“Give it to me.” The polished accent contains Eastern European notes.
“Give you what?” I adjust my stance again while measuring distance and cover. The desk is at my back, the solid wood between us and the door if it comes to that.
In an almost lazy gesture, Dracula brings out a pistol with a silencer attached. “Gio Falcone sends his regards.”
He fires.
I’m moving already, my arm hooked around Jordan’s waist as I haul her over the giant desk.
Fucking Gio.
Outsourcing his wars, ordering other men to spill the blood.
A bullet punches the wall where my skull used to be, and plaster powder drifts down like snow.
Jordan and I hit the floor hard, and the box topples from her hands. Her breath rattles against my neck, her body flush to mine in the strip of space between the desk and wall. My gun’s still in my hand, the weight a comfort. The gift box sits on the hardwood beside us, perfectly innocent and useless.
I can’t shoot. Not without a silencer.
One round, and I may as well set off flares. Security, staff, and every guest on the floor would come running.
This has to stay quiet. Contained. There’s no other way.
Unhurried footsteps meander around the desk.
We’re cornered.
After the leader mutters an unintelligible command, his crew splits. One breaks left, the other right. Classic flanking.
They’re good. Trained.
