The scary man.
My stomach drops.
“Once it’s official, we can start the reno next week,” the second man replies. “Apartments upstairs, retail on the ground floor. Good money in it.”
“Yup,” the other man replies. “I told Milo he could keep the gallery. But plans change.”
They’re walking closer. I can see their legs now—dark trousers, polished shoes.
“Milo folded faster than I expected,” the first man continues, that same icy confidence from earlier. “Thought he’d put up more of a fight.”
A low chuckle. “You can bepersuasive.”
They stop maybe ten feet away. I hold my breath so hard my chest aches.
Then—
Pop. Pop.
Two quick, muffled shots.
The second man drops like a stone, crumpling right in front of me. Blood spreads dark across the concrete.
I scream—small, choked, involuntary. My heart thumps inside my chest and I feel adrenalin surge over my body, my mind at the same moment totally blank.
The scary man moves faster than should be possible. He spins, gun already up, and fires once more. Clean. Precise.The attacker—whoever came through the door behind them—slumps against the wall and doesn’t move again.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
More footsteps—heavy boots now—crashing through the front entrance.
Shouts.
Gunfire. This time louder and longer.
Bullets ping off metal beams, shatter glass somewhere behind me.
I’m going to die here.
Right here, behind my own sculpture, in the middle of the night, before anyone even sees my show.
Then—strong hands grab my upper arms.
I yelp, thrashing.
“Quiet,” a voice growls in my ear—urgent, commanding. “I’ve got you.”
It’s him.
The scary man.
He hauls me up like I weigh nothing, tucks me against his side, and starts moving—andfast. His arm is iron around my waist, shielding me as more shots crack through the air.
We burst through the side exit into the alley. Cold air hits my face like a slap.
There’s a black SUV waiting, engine running.
He practically throws me into the back seat, dives in after me, and slams the door.
