“Okay, thanks,” I say. “And without further ado…”
I wave to the conductor who looks like he wants nothing more than to slap me into the next century, but he gestures for the band. As the opening bars toThe Way You Look Tonightstart to play again, my whole body goes slack with relief. I inhale for what feels like the first time in hours and I launch into the song with such power, I surprise myself. My voice is sweet and strong, vibrating with the hope the universe has just handed me. I’ve never sung so beautifully.
Mr. Bianchi and his blonde bride start to dance, and I close my eyes and smile. I’ve done it. No matter how stupid and bad it was, I know Doc got my message. He won’t eat or drink; won’t let the others do it either. We’re going to be okay.
A loud snap. Another.
My eyes fly open. I look at the windows. Look for the birds that must have flown into the glass, but there aren’t any. Instead, there’s Bobby, sitting at the table with his hand pressed to his shoulder, blood pouring from it like wine.
I hear my singing turn to a scream. Watch as tables turn over, people leaping to their feet, shouting, and shrieking. Another loud snap and a champagne glass exactly where Doc’s head used to be explodes.
I scream again and my gaze swings to Mr. Parker’s table. He’s smiling, his teeth bared like a dog. He’s going to kill all of us. It doesn’t matter that I stopped the poisoning. We’re all going to die at this wedding.
Chapter Nine
Adriano Rossi
We have aprotocol for this—whatever the fuck this is.
If, and when, things go to shit in a public place, Eli scopes the surroundings for an escape, Doc repairs the injured, Bobby contacts the Velvet House crew to extract us. I protect January.
There are still gunshots snapping through the air when I get to my feet, sprinting around overturned tables and screaming guests to the side of the ballroom. I’d crawl but the ground is covered in broken glass and that poisoned champagne. One cut and the Orchard in my system turns to cyanide. I try to assess the best route to the stage. It’s a shitshow. Guests have surged to every exit creating bottlenecks everywhere.
“What’s happening?” A man shouts. “Who would do this?”
The answer is obvious.
Parker.
I could find him in the chaos and snap his neck. I’d do it, fuck the contract and the consequences but my job is more important—protecting January. I can’t see her on the stage, and I pray to whatever bloodthirsty hypocritical god built this world that it’s because she’s taking cover.
She can’t be dead. I’ll tear this hotel to the ground first.
More shots ring out and an old guy’s head comes off to fresh screams. The remaining band members on stage throw their instruments and jump into the frantic crowd. Whoever Parker put up to do this is a butcher. But why? Starting a gunfight at a Bianchi wedding is a death wish. And if the fucker’s gonna keep shooting until he does what he’s told and kills Velvet House, I need to crawl.
I snatch a tablecloth off the nearest table, wind it around my fists and drop to all fours. As I work my way between the tables the old gunshot wound in my side aches. I’m not as young as I was, and my skin is tired of re-knitting. Tired of keeping me alive. It doesn’t matter. I keep crawling. When I reach the stage, I take a quick glance, see no one looking, and haul myself onto the raised platform.
There she is, curled on her side like I showed her.
“Divchynko moya, ty v bezpetsi. Ty zhyva.”My little girl, you are safe. You are alive.
In my panic, the Ukrainian comes out of me like water. Luckily January looks up. Her expression as she recognizes me is the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.
“Adriano, you found me.”
“Always, Pryntsesa.”
She struggles to sit up. “Are the others okay? What’s happening?”
I take her hand. “We need to leave.”
“But where are the others?” January asks a panicky note in her voice.
“On their way to Gretzky and the car probably.”
“I saw Bobby get shot. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. It’s just through his shoulder.”
