“Now be a good girl,” I say sweetly. “And fuck off.”
Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My first thought is that someone must’ve gotten too enthusiastic with the Dom Pérignon.
But then the screaming starts. Reality dawns on me. Those aren't corks popping. Those are gunshots. And they're coming from the main gallery floor.
My body moves before my brain catches up. From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of muzzle fire near the north entrance. Guests are already starting to scramble like ants from an overturned anthill, and there’s blood spreading across the white marble floor.
I blink, and my attention shifts elsewhere.
Slava.
He's still posing for the photos, and the first thought I have is:This is it.Let him die.Let someone else do what I've been unable to do for five years.
But as soon as the thought pops into my head, I know that I can’t let him die. Because if he dies now, he dies a martyr. A philanthropist cut down in his prime. The story ends with him as the victim, and I willneverhave the satisfaction of watching the world see him for the monster he really is.
And so, I do something that I swore I’d never do.
"Get down!"
I hit him at the waist, and tackle him to the ground with my full weight. We crash down to the ground together. My elbow slams against the marble floor, and when I hit the solid wall of heat and muscle underneath, the air tumbles out of my lungs all at once.
For a single surreal moment, everything goes quiet.
My entire body is pressed against his. I can feel his heartbeat, steady as a metronome despite the chaos, and I hate—hate—that mine is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the gunfire.
His face is inches from mine and I can see the individual strands of his hair falling across his forehead. The taste of his cologne teases my tongue. As more gunshots are ringing out all around us, those winter-gray eyes open wide with just a hint of surprise that looks suspiciously like amusement. Almost as if he finds it funny that I’m pressed against his body while death dances in circles all around us.
He reaches up and closes his fist in my hair. Whether he’s keeping my head down or trapping me against him, I can't tell which.
And right now, I don’t think I care.
"Ms. Creminelli." His lips curve up, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. "I believe this is an inconceivable catastrophe that we were looking to avoid."
Are you effing kidding me right now?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
More gunfire. Closer now.
We move simultaneously, Slava rolling to his feet with a grace that seems impossible for a man his size. His hand closes around mine. It’s warm, steady, and completelywrong. In a single fluid motion, he yanks me upright and pulls out his own gun.
“We need to go.”
And that is the only warning I get when he aims it and fires three shots without flinching.
My ears ring and I flinch next to him. And despite the fact that I know that work should be the last thing on my mind, I can’t help but think about how I’ll have to come up with a damn good excuse for why he has a freakinggunat a charity gala.
So much for his promise that I won’t have to stay any later at the office than I have to.
Hysterical laughter starts bubbling in my throat as he drags me behind him. I swallow it down.
"This way." He pulls me back towards the corridor as chips of marble fly overhead from the bullets slamming into them.
I look back into the chaos and that's when I see Vanessa.
